


Blood Sport

by sylvanWhispers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arranged Marriage, Crossdressing, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Scent Marking, you guys know how this goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25481374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvanWhispers/pseuds/sylvanWhispers
Summary: Theon's whole life - his whole sense of self, even - has been built around the expectation that when he finally presents it'll be as an alpha; the rightful heir to the Iron Islands. When things don't go according to plan, he finds himself faced with a very different future.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy & Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Yara Greyjoy
Comments: 98
Kudos: 207





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ahziel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahziel/gifts).



> A very belated birthday gift for Ahziel, with Totel stealth-reaping the benefits. I tried so hard to make this a oneshot, as always, but at some point you have to look at the word count and admit defeat.
> 
> Most of the ideas and worldbuilding (which I haven't even gotten to yet in this chapter skjfndjbn) was crowdsourced through the thramsay group chat, and I was chosen as tribute to write it.

It started with a loss of appetite and energy that quickly turned to fever.

Most men came into their second wave by the age of six-and-ten, when they’d be considered men grown. Some presented earlier, others a little later, but by nine-and-ten Theon had been well past the general window known to most well-fed lordlings. His body may have continued to grow, but it had stubbornly refused to enter its first rut or emit the distinctive scents of a young alpha. Even after Robb and Jon both presented, Theon continued to carry the clean null scent of boyhood.

The sickness struck after a long day of sparring in the yard. It inspired many a mocking comment about Ironborn constitution being too weak for the Northern chill, though it was always a tense affair whenever Theon fell ill. When his fever refused to break, the men began to murmur of the dangers to their tentative peace if Balon’s son died of sickness in the North. Then the sweats started, and the awful empty ache, and the maester was forced to give Lord Stark the news.

It was unwelcome news, to say the least. Absolutely no one wanted Theon Greyjoy to be an omega.

He had been taken as hostage over his elder sister for a reason after all. The assumptions made about his future presentation had been reasonable at the time - male omegas were profoundly rare and female alphas equally so; to produce one after another would have been nothing short of a jape by the gods.

 _Father always knew,_ Theon remembered thinking amidst the delirium as he stained his own sheets with sweat and slick. _My brothers too. They must have all known._

Beneath it all he wondered if the Northerners were going to kill him for it. Would they accuse the Ironborn of intentionally sending them the wrong hostage? If Theon no longer served a purpose, surely the only other option was to send him home? But neither happened. He was not sent back and he was not put to the sword.

Yet overnight his whole world had still been rewritten. He emerged from his first heat with weak legs and hazy vision, everything suddenly seeming so loud and harsh on his senses. Especially his sense of smell - the pungent scents of grown alphas was suddenly everywhere, inescapable within Winterfell’s walls. Guards who had once regarded him with distrust found themselves instinctively stepping aside or letting him pass first through doorways. Ser Rodrik would take one look at him when he came to the yard for training and send him right back to the keep. Theon was no longer allowed to call upon the Wintertown whores. No longer allowed to go swimming, let alone naked or with Robb.

Robb of course, was the worst of it. In an instant they had gone from brothers who could laugh and embrace as easily as breathing to alpha and omega. The distinction was like a stone wall between them. Robb became jittery and uncomfortable, always looking over his shoulder when they were alone as if afraid of the impropriety.

“What’s wrong with you?” Theon had demanded, watching Robb flinch for the fifth time when their skin accidentally brushed.

“Nothing!” Robb hurriedly clasped his hands in his lap. “Everything’s fine.”

“That’s a fine lie, considering you can hardly stand to look at me,” Theon said darkly. “Or are you such a useless virgin that you can’t even meet my gaze?”

“No, I -“

“Perhaps we were never brothers at all then. I didn’t realize your affections were so fickle!” Theon discarded his bow to the ground; archery was the only combative activity he was allowed to pursue anymore.

He realized with mortification that his eyes had begun to well up with unshed tears. Robb looked horrorstruck, hands fluttering helplessly in the air. He was exactly the sort of alpha to get distressed when he saw a weeping omega, but Theon would have none of it.

“Theon, please don’t cry-“

“I’m not crying!” He snarled, viciously rubbing at his face. “Why don’t you run off with Snow then, if you’re so hellbent on avoiding me! No need to _force_ yourself into my company out of kindness!”

He ignored the calls and broke into a run back to the keep. He couldn’t let Robb know how much the loss of him stung. If Theon was going to cry it would be in the privacy of his own room, and he’d go to his watery grave before admitting it. The maester said that his emotions would be hard to control following the first heat. Maintaining his moods had indeed been a struggle these days, but Theon refused to be reduced to some hysterical maid.

In the recent days he had grown very accustomed to sitting in his chambers, drowning in his own boredom. Better than suffering the world outside, with its stares and whispers. He was barely allowed to do _anything_ anymore, so what was even the point?

It wasn't long before there was a tentative knock on his door. Theon buried his head beneath his pillow. The knocking continued.

“Theon… please open the door. I only want to talk.”

“Coming to an omega’s chambers without a chaperone, Stark? How very scandalous of you.”

There was a pause. Theon could imagine the exact look on Robb’s face: embarrassment and awkwardness that would eventually give way to determined resolve.

“I don’t care.”

Theon rolled out of bed and padded to the door before easing it open a crack. “Is that right?”

Robb shifted, cheeks faintly flushed and eyes wide. “Well, that is- I care about your honor, of course, but I-“

“God’s sake,” Theon pulled him into the room. “What’s this about my honor? Everyone knows I’ve been going to the brothel since my first wave hit.”

His cock could only spill empty seed but it still served him well enough. While he’d heard that bedding omegas could hasten the arrival of first rut, that motivation had quickly given way to genuine enjoyment of the pasttime.

“That doesn’t count, you hadn’t presented. An omega lying with omegas is…” He flushed even darker red, hand waving in an odd illustrative motion that conveyed nothing. “It just doesn’t count. You’re still a mai- a virgin. Especially if you’ve never…”

Robb's eyes flickered downwards before bashfully looking elsewhere.

“No, Stark, I’ve never been fucked.”

The very idea of an Ironborn man, a future alpha, bending over to take it was obscene beyond measure. Theon cleared his throat and stubbornly pushed his mid-heat dreams from his mind.

“R-right. Listen, I did not mean to push you away. It’s been an adjustment, alright? Thinking of you one way all these years, and then to… to smell you like that-“

“What’s wrong with how I smell?”

“Nothing!” Robb said quickly. “Just. Not what I expected.”

It wasn’t that Robb didn’t smell differently to Theon’s new nose as well. Rustic but clean, like fresh grass and warm summer air. Theon could tell by smelling him that Robb was young and healthy, strong and likely virile - but such was not exactly the love potion that all the stories made it out to be.

“Don’t stay angry at me, Theon. I still care for you just as I always did.”

"If you say so."

In another time Theon might have stayed angry, if only to enjoy Robb’s guilt and pleading manners, but at that moment the assurance was much needed.

The peace was short lived; Catelyn Stark found the two of them in the same bed come morning - lying atop the furs with clothes on, but by the way she carried on you’d think she’d found them fucking bare-arsed on the floor. Wielding accusations like blades, she quickly took arms to Lord Stark with the simple, uncompromising demand: do something about the Ironborn harlot before he seduces our firstborn and destroys his future.

* * *

When Ned Stark wrote to Balon Greyjoy, it was to politely open a dialogue about Theon marrying a Northern lord and amicably securing peace between their peoples. Balon had replied that the _proper_ thing would be to send Theon back so that eligible captains could compete for his hand, as was Ironborn tradition. Ned’s own response was that doing so was only possible if Yara was sent to the North in exchange. Balon immediately revised his terms: marry Theon to whomever, but for the Iron Islands to support the union it would have to be a groom proven worthy.

Betrothal contests were not unheard of on the mainland but they were usually largely ceremonial and rigged. Little more than congenial tourneys meant to entertain and spare the pride of lordly allies whose sons were passed over in favor of the pre-selected groom. In the Iron Islands such a contest was none of those things. What they had instead was a blood sport in a glorified fight pit - brutal, grimy and real. In a land where anyone regardless of birth could be a great captain or reaver, strength was the greatest currency. Balon Greyjoy could sneer and gripe even as Theon married the richest and most esteemed lord in all the world; meanwhile a lowborn reaver with enough salt brides and dead men to his name could very well get a full blessing. It wasn’t as if Theon’s children would bear the Greyjoy name, in any case.

It was enough to make him almost grateful to not return home.

The whole affair was still a farce in Theon’s mind, but that didn’t stop any of the wheels set in motion from turning. Invitations were sent across the North, each bearing a scrap of Theon’s mid-heat bedsheets so that suitors could gauge compatibility through scent. Several Northern lords wrote back to Ned Stark about sending their sons, even though disdain for the Ironborn was no secret. Theon wondered how many were only coming out of obligation to Ned, civic duty, or for the boasting rights of securing their seafaring neighbors. There were a few self-nominations as well; probably old perverts who had always lusted after boys but kept it hidden due to the scarcity of male omegas.

In the days leading up to the tournament, more and more lordlings came to be hosted at Winterfell. The air in the great hall was perpetually thick with the indistinguishable musk of multiple alphas. It made a poor combination with the assessing eyes that now followed Theon everywhere. He was not used to being an object of interest for men and found himself thoroughly disliking the experience. Everywhere he went and at every corner he turned, someone was there, looking at him like a piece of meat. Weighing his value in their minds.

“I never thought I would have to tell you of all people this, but it wouldn’t hurt to smile more,” Robb murmured.

Theon glowered harder at his plate, stabbing at his dinner with a vengeance. “Why should I?”

He was already dressed in velvet with pearl embellishments, a silk scarf protecting the modesty of his neck and the scent glands within. His mornings were now spent being fussed over by the very wenches he used to finger in alcoves and storerooms. As if he needed anyone’s help looking desirable, especially to some mainland chaff. He was no tender maid and he could not sew, nor play the harp, nor run the numbers of a lord’s keep - if these men wanted a blushing and diligent omega bride they had best look elsewhere.

Robb frowned but knew better than to nag. The confirmation that he and Theon were not to marry after all had him taking the ‘brother’ title far more literally. He had been almost comedically serious in his commitment to the proceedings, even asking his father for permission to oversee the tournament and manage the suitors - a role that was usually reserved for an alpha sibling. Ned had agreed.

Throughout every meal he whispered into Theon’s ear about the men and their prospects, weighing the positives and negatives of each match until names and faces blended together. Be it Karstark or Flint or Norrey, what did it really matter?

Theon wanted to take Robb’s hand and beg him to send them all away. ‘ _Elope with me_ ’, he’d say. ‘ _I would rather marry a man I love as a brother than be sent to the keep of some stranger and made to bear his sons_.’ Would Robb refuse him? If Theon rolled the dice and came to his chambers that night, could he seduce the young heir and then pressure him into making oaths under the heart tree? A dirty, traitorous trick that would prove Catelyn Stark right, but at least his own future would be secure. Robb would forgive him.

Pride, rather than morality, kept his hand in his lap. He was an Ironborn man and he was not going to beg to be saved. He sighed and Robb’s scent in his nostrils was too sweet, too clean and innocent. It really would be like fucking a little brother. Theon would have had to hold his breath just to get hard.

When he raised his eyes from the table he found them naturally locking with another gaze across the hall. The man must have been of little import to be sat at the far end of the room, but there was a disquieting quality to his unblinking stare. He was even paler than some of the other Northmen, which was no mean feat, with sable hair and a sturdy build.

“Who’s that?”

Robb immediately swiveled his gaze about the hall before finding his mark.

“Oh. That’s, um, Ramsay Snow.”

Theon choked on his drink. “ _Snow_? You’re letting a fucking bastard try for my hand, Stark?”

He should’ve known. Robb was always too soft on Jon. He’d probably have suggested that Theon marry _that_ miserable sod if he didn’t know he’d get a bollocking on both sides for it. Jon was refusing to compete and Catelyn probably would have barred him otherwise. It was well known that she wanted Jon at the Wall, not breeding with a great house and producing a rival line for Winterfell’s inheritance. As fun as driving Lady Stark mad would be in concept, Jon’s scent confirmed what his boorish personality had told Theon at the start, which was that they were thoroughly incompatible (“ _you smell like raw fish_ ”, “ _well you stink of burnt porridge!_ ” and that was simply that).

“Ramsay is the Lord Bolton’s only living issue,” Robb said. “If he wins, his father and mine will petition the king to have him validated. He’d be the heir to the Dreadfort.”

“And I the brood mare of a lowborn mule,” Theon hissed. “Have you no love for me at all?”

Robb’s expression was serious. “I do, such is why I hoped you’d consider him. He would owe you for his status - a marriage to a great house would not only enforce his claim, but maintain the Boltons’ edge over their rivals when he inherits. A man in his position could well be more inclined to offer you liberties that another lord might not.”

Theon blinked, mulling the information over. A simple, lowborn bastard in his debt would be easier to manipulate, for certain. Robb sensed the hesitation and jumped on it.

“He gets on well enough with the other men, all things considered. Even earned some of their respect on our hunts. And he’s got a humor I think you’d appreciate.”

Theon tried to surreptitiously glance Ramsay Snow’s way once again, only to find that the other man’s gaze had not wavered. Theon was so far out of the bastard’s league that it’d take a month’s worth of travel to voyage between their two points, but perhaps that was a positive after all. With his father’s abandonment and the Starks parading him out like a prize horse, it was becoming clear that he would need to gain any leverage of power he could in his new household.

If he married an alpha too far from the Sunset Sea he would be beyond his family’s access, but all the Northerners who lived along the western shore - the mountain tribes, Bear Islanders, even the crannogmen - had an ingrained hatred for the Ironborn, so perhaps he’d be better off. Once he was married there was a strong possibility he’d have to continue relying on Stark protection, so a house that held their liege lords in high esteem was the safest bet.

It shouldn’t be too difficult. From what he’d always seen, most everyone in the North was tripping over themselves to kiss Ned Stark’s arse.

* * *

The last of the suitors were trickling in when news reached Winterfell of an unexpected guest: an Ironborn vessel bearing Greyjoy banners that had made port off Deepwood Motte. At first there was concern, even a readying of arms, but a single ship did not an invasion make.

“It’s your sister,” Robb said upon visiting Theon in his chamber, which had been sealed and guarded ever since word broke. The door was now left ever so slightly ajar of course, lest anyone continue to suspect indecency between them. “We received no prior notice that she’d be attending. Father says she’s likely here without permission.”

Yara had always been bold, and the apple of their father’s eye besides, but the very idea of going behind Balon Greyjoy’s back to do anything made Theon’s head spin.

“Now that we know she’s to inherit, your father likely fears that we’d take her hostage.”

His elder sister. The alpha, the heir. Of course.

Theon swallowed thickly, his eyes trained on the toes of his boots. “Won’t you?”

“What? No!” Robb looked aghast at the suggestion. “She’s come here peacefully, as a guest _,_ to oversee her brother’s betrothal. Your family’s approval of this union is important - with her here to sign off on it, we can hold her accountable to our peoples’ reconciliation.”

Theon snorted. Reconciliation. Too much blood had been spilt on both sides for his marriage to accomplish such a thing.

“We are not our parents, Theon. None of us are; our generation has its own chance now. You are family to me and for you, I will push for peace through your sister.”

Robb was so idealistic and earnest that Theon wanted to shove him away and pull him closer all at once. In the pit of his despair, he found himself wanting to believe that the situation could be salvaged. That he was not taken from his home to live beneath a sword for nothing, and that it could all serve a greater purpose.

“Does this mean I’m never going home?”

The words slipped from his lips just as soon as they’d entered his mind. Robb’s gaze snapped up in a wide stare, looking so young and lost.

“I suppose it’ll be at my alpha’s discretion.” Theon couldn’t have kept the bitterness from his voice if he tried.

“Theon-“

“Was there anything else? I’m tired.”

He was refusing to meet Robb’s gaze but could still feel it fixed upon him.

“… Of course.” Robb took a step back, stiffly reaching for the door. “I… I will see you in the morning.”

“I expect so.” _I’m not going anywhere._

* * *

Theon had not seen his sister since he was a boy of nine and she an awkward youth herself. She had not yet presented, a fact which had not only spared her from naval service and likely saved her life when the rebellion failed, but nominated Theon as hostage in her place.

When she arrived at Winterfell and all but kicked his door in, it was the kraken on her breastplate that told him he was not under attack. By face alone, he would not have recognized her.

“… What the fuck are you wearing?” Yara’s first words to him in some ten years.

Upon closer examination he could see some of father’s likeness in her. The dark, steely eyes, the set of her brow and angle of her jaw. Her alpha scent was windswept but heady, and though Theon had not experienced either in years he immediately thought of brine and kelp.

“Did you not bathe before coming here?” No need for Theon’s first words to her to be any more hospitable.

Yara snorted. “A thousand pardons m’lady, I’ve had to leave my handmaids at the port.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t dress like one.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, which was apparently long enough for Robb to catch up from wherever Yara had blown past him.

“Princess Yara-“

“It’s Captain Reaper, to you.” She didn’t even look at him, gaze still fixed on Theon’s own. “There’s no call for you to be here, Stark. I need to have words with my brother.”

Robb scowled, hands fisted at his sides. The boy having spent most of his life playing peacekeeper or mediator, Theon had not often seen him express genuine frustration or dislike towards anyone.

“… Of course. Your crew will be seen to in the meanwhile.” Robb glanced between the two of them. “I’ll be outside.”

Yara rolled her eyes before firmly shutting the door, nearly hitting him in the back with it in the process.

“‘I’ll be outside’ he says. Ha. He thinks I’m going to steal you away, as if you’re his to be stolen. It’d be a rescue, more like.” Yara looked Theon up and down, nose creased like she didn’t like what she saw. “Fuck and drown me, look what they’ve done to you.”

Theon bristled. “They’ve fed and taught and clothed me.”

“Oh, I can see that. Did they teach you to be grateful for it too?” Yara scoffed. “I suppose you hate me then.”

A pause. Bitterness and resentment were hard to tamp down, especially with the kraken on her chest in his line of sight and the haze of her alpha scent in his nostrils. All of that should have been his. It should have been _her_ who had her world taken and life rewritten.

“Yes.”

“That’s fair. Hate me if you want.” She didn’t sound surprised nor bothered, which stoked his ire ever more. “It makes no difference to me, nor to my task.”

“And what task would that be?”

“What do you think? The Starks didn’t waste time peddling your cunt out to the highest bidder, but at least they’re abiding by father’s demand. If they want us to stand by this merger and whatever babes you spawn, it won’t be by mixing our bloodline with some soft-handed lordling,” Yara turned toward the door and raised her voice a level. “If the Stark boy had any real balls he’d have married you himself, but I suppose it’s just as well now that I’ve got the measure of him.”

“Yara-“

“It’s an insult, you know that? Ten fucking years and they still think you’re beneath them! Not good enough to marry into their house. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Theon swallowed tightly. “Robb is the heir. He has to marry a Northgirl. His bannermen would riot if he wedded me instead.”

“You’ve always been good at lying to yourself,” Yara said with an unkind smile. “Couldn’t even accept Rodrik and Maron for what they were. Always crawling back after you’d been kicked.”

“Rodrik and Maron were cunts,” Theon snarled. “And so is father! The lot of you sold me off _long_ before the Starks got it in their heads to do it!”

It was like a dam breaking, unleashing a flood of bile and toxic slurry. Theon had been taken from his family, his home, kept prisoner from a tender age and made to carry Ned Stark’s sword as a constant reminder that his own head was never safe. His cold comfort through it all was knowing that one day his suffering would pan gold. He had worn his destiny like armor, shielding him from loneliness and mainlander scorn. Now those dreams were washing away like water through his hands.

“My name was all I had! The promise of a bright future waiting for me at the end of this- this- endless night of being stranded out here with nothing and no one! You can’t know what it was like!” Theon threw the nearest thing on hand, which unfortunately was a shoe that bounced ineffectually off Yara’s armor. She didn’t even flinch. “I’ve been cheated out of _everything_ that ever mattered and it’s all your bloody fault! Father threw me to the wolves, and you can all scoff and sneer at me for making good of it but I survived and without any of your help!”

The silence stretched on, Theon’s breathing labored and loud. Yara was looking at him pensively.

“… You look rather like mother.”

He faltered a moment, which was apparently enough for the wind to leave him. “Why are you here, Yara.”

“I told you: to make sure the Starks do right by you and our house,” Yara said plainly. “I don’t want them rigging this tourney to hand you off to whoever paid the highest price or kissed the most arse. Especially considering that if any of your children are born in the islands or at sea, they’ll still be considered Ironborn. I could take one and make it my heir.”

Theon choked on spittle at the back of his tongue. “You’ll _what_?”

“I have no interest in marrying or having babes of my own,” Yara said with a shrug, like her suggestion was anything but ridiculous. “Give me a spare alpha and I’ll give it the Greyjoy name. It’s not so strange. At least you’re a man - down in Dorne they’ve got omega women passing house names onto their babes.”

“There is no way father knows of this.”

“Father is no immortal. I’m the successor and who I choose as my own heir is my business,” Yara said. “Speaking of business, I’ve also managed to wring a decent dowry for you. Like hell we’d let the Starks treat you as some bloody charity.”

“Dowry?” Theon echoed. “Father’s going to pay my dowry?”

He hadn’t even thought about it. Ned Stark probably would have provided out of propriety and obligation, but Theon couldn’t imagine it’d be on par with what the man would give for his own children.

“There are funds,” Yara answered vaguely. “Coin that was set away when I was born. And our mines may not have much by way of gold, but Lordsport has the finest forges in the Seven Kingdoms. We won’t be shamed.”

Gold from their mother’s savings plus metalwork that Yara had commissioned from the blacksmiths of Pyke. Balon Greyjoy probably had little to do with any of it.

“He’s washed his hands of me then.”

Yara looked at him soberly. “Don’t concern yourself with father. I am heiress of Pyke and hand of the Seastone Chair. You’re my brother and your children will be recognized as my kin; that is all that you need to worry about.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Not by any measure. Unfortunately, the list of impossible things Theon wanted was growing too long to manage.

* * *

By the time the arena was constructed and the day of the tourney upon them, Theon was genuinely surprised to see that he (and given her forceful involvement in the proceedings, Yara) had not managed to scare off the suitors. He'd hoped to drive away at least a handful after accompanying their last hunt, having earned several dark looks for taking kill shots instead of letting the alphas show off.

“Sharpen up, brother.”

Yara took a swig straight from a wine bottle from her place by the fire. He wanted to ask her where she’d found it, as the Starks had taken new pains to keep the drink from his hands ever since he presented.

“Northern lords may lick the Stark boot but amongst themselves they are little more than well-mannered beasts. This sport is just as much about beating one another as it is about winning you. Alphas take every opportunity to prove the size of their cocks to each other.”

“Save for you?”

Yara laughed. “Me? Those greenboys are thanking their sacred trees as we speak that they don’t have to fight the likes of me this day.”

He could believe it, what with Robb’s many complaints on how she was disrupting the pecking order amongst the suitors with her harsh criticisms and aggressive behavior. Theon’s response was that Robb’s firstborn status had spoiled him, and that he would not have lasted one week as a younger sibling in the Iron Islands. Let alone the youngest of many.

Yara had him dressed in fresh leather armor that had been stained black, with the gleaming steel kraken on the chest set in harsh relief. A kransen circlet forged of black iron and embellished with silver was heavy on his brow.

“You don’t have to go along with this,” Yara said. “They can’t legally wed you off without your consent. Say the word and I’ll evict every alpha from this keep myself.”

He huffed a laugh in spite of his mood. Wouldn’t it be a fine thing to start another war because his sister took up arms and deemed every noble alpha in the North unworthy? Like something out of song.

“You won’t. You can’t.” Not without father’s support, and certainly not with only a single ship’s worth of men. “Omegas have to marry. If not today, then someday.”

Better to marry now when the prospective grooms within his age bracket were still available. If Theon waited too long he’d be left with boy lords and widowers raising previously-sired heirs. Not to mention that nine-and-ten was already nearing the boundary for an omega’s standard age of desirability.

“We have omega captains in the islands. Reavers, even.”

“I am not going back to the islands and you know it.”

The words dripped from his lips like poison. He wasn’t over it. He probably never would be. Theon had come to the North a prisoner and he would likely die that way. His only hope now would be to establish dominance over his new husband; to play his alpha like a harp the way those damn court wenches did in the capitol.

He hadn’t been especially impressed by the Northern lords. They were like all young alpha men, really. Lusty and boastful and proud, which Theon knew a thing or two about. They didn’t think much of him either - an Ironborn savage raised as an alpha and who thus possessed little omegan skills. Only good for breeding and political leverage. Well, he’d prove them wrong for underestimating him. Whichever unlucky sod won his hand would rue this day.

“You get a dark look about you sometimes,” Yara commented mildly. “Might want to reel that in.”

“Piss off.”

“Though I suppose anything’s better than that insufferable fake smile you put on when the Stark boy’s watching.”

“I said _piss off._ ”

Robb would be wrangling the suitors right about now, establishing the order of matches and explaining the rules of combat. It would be bare-handed, more a wrestle than a joust. When young alphas gathered together and got rowdy they tended to forget themselves, sometimes even triggering a rut as their blood ran hot and filled the air with their competing scents. No lord wanted to see their heir run through, or to get taken to task by another lord because their sons went feral when fighting for mating rights.

“You’re awful sensitive about that boy,” Yara was saying as she took Theon by the arm.

“He’s been a truer brother to me than Rodrik or Maron ever were.”

“A pitiful standard, but I suppose you’ve had to make do.”

* * *

Theon’s seat was high in the stands, providing him with full view of the arena whilst making him easily accessible to the eyes of all below. At his left was his sister and at his right was Robb. In the rows up and behind him were the rest of the Stark family.

For once both Sansa and Arya were united in their excitement for something. The elder girl no doubt had a head full of fantasies about noble jousts for a fair maid’s hand, whereas the younger was vibrating with anticipation for violent spectacle. Meanwhile the Lord and Lady Stark were watching with serious expressions. Lady Catelyn no doubt wanted the whole thing over and done with, while Ned seemed most interested in watching how Robb commanded the next generation of lords and bannermen.

When all was gathered and settled, Robb rose from his seat with a somber and regal air.

“Esteemed allies and friends, these past days you have honored us with your presence and interest. It fills me with great pride to know that Theon of Greyjoy, whom I love as my own brother, could have no finer selection of suitors. No matter the outcome-“

“Oh fucking hell,” Yara rose from her seat and nudged Robb over to make herself room at the railing. “Let’s not mince words. You all know why you’re here. You’re here because you want to prove to the rest of the North what big knots you’ve got. You’re here because you want to take credit for getting the leverage on my people and getting your whelp on the Seastone Chair. You’re here because you want to cozy up evermore to the Starks. And that’s all well and good. No shame in it.”

“Captain-“

Yara held up a finger to stay Robb’s words. “But you’d best remember that my brother is the son of a great house. He’s a prince whose blood runs true straight back to the veins of the Grey King, the first omega to be born into the Greyjoy line in six generations, and the first male omega I’ll bet most of you have ever seen outside your mid-rut dreams. Whatever hate you have for our people, you cannot deny that he’d bear even the least of you strong and fearsome sons. He’s hardly offensive to behold either, so your daughters should be fair, not accounting for the face of the sire.”

Theon felt like he could dissolve on the spot. It was like watching a keep go up in flames. Robb was somewhere between shocked and baffled, glancing from Yara, to his lord father, to the arena as if somewhere he’d find answers.

“Winner gets breeding rights with my house, a generous dowry, and my commitment as heiress of Pyke to the merger. Prove that you’re worthy of it.”

With that Yara lounged back in her seat, not a hint of shame nor remorse on her face. Theon risked a glance up and behind him. Catelyn Stark was aghast with offense whilst Ned Stark looked both resigned and pained.

For a long moment Robb seemed lost for words. He shook himself and hurriedly recovered.

“… You all know the rules. Points are awarded when an opponent is either forced beyond the boundary line or has both shoulders touch the earth. Three points determines a match winner, who will continue on to the next round. I understand that passions can run high, but physical strikes to the head, genitals or key organs will result in immediate dismissal from the contest,” Robb said. “I have confidence that you will all, in victory or defeat, conduct yourselves with dignity and honor.”

He gave a signal and Ser Rodrik stepped forward to call the first names. Near thirty suitors had come to compete, and after witnessing the weight of their combined presence - and appetites - burdening Winterfell for the past two weeks Theon had no favored champion.

He had never given much thought to the appeal of alpha men at all, having always been so certain of his own presentation and opting to chase omega wenches instead. The Northmen were a strong and hardy breed, true, with some better looking than others. As they shouldered up and grappled onto each other, Theon found himself watching with almost academic fascination. Most of the men were shirtless and gleaming with sweat despite the cool breeze, grunting and snarling as they struggled against one another to the clamor of the spectators. At one point Ethan Condon lost his breeches to a slipped hold, forcing Catelyn Stark to clap hands over her daughters’ eyes.

Theon fussed with his collar. “I think I need a drink.”

Robb sat up in his seat. “Water? I’ll call for-“

“That is not the drink I meant.”

“Have this.” Yara produced a flask from her inner pocket, impervious to Robb’s disapproving glare. “Don’t let it touch your tongue though, it’s utter swill.”

He still choked on it, the grog more sour than sweet. “Fucking hell, do you not love yourself?”

Robb snatched the flask from his hands. “This is not the time to be getting drunk on sailors’ bile.”

“If now’s not the time, I can’t imagine when would be,” Yara muttered. “Marriage is a sinkpit.”

Theon ignored Robb’s appalled expression and hummed in agreement as Benfred Tallheart was counted out. After all the grief Theon had given him in their boyhood over the state of his neck, it had been a surprise to see him compete at all. In the following match it was another sigh of relief when Jory Cassel was dropped hard by one of the mountain clansmen.

“You know Jory, he’s a good man,” Robb said in open disappointment. “If you married him you would have been able to stay in Winterfell.”

“And if I learn you put him up to it, there'll be hell to pay. Even if he weren’t over ten years my senior, I’d rather reside in the deepest bog of the Neck than have Ser Rodrik as my uncle, Stark.”

When Ramsay Snow descended into the arena, Theon found himself taking some mild interest. The bastard had a strong build and a sharp jaw, but compared to some of the other monsters the North had to offer he appeared rather average. His eyes found Theon’s with a cold fire that was hard to describe. There was no nervousness nor reverence in his gaze, but an intensity that seemed to pierce into Theon’s own soul.

Snow’s opponent was Torrhen Whitehill, an older boy who had leered at Theon’s chest and asked for proof that his teats could suckle children. The match was signaled to begin and immediately Snow broke eye contact, grappling Torrhen by the waist and roughly leveraging his weight to the ground.

Snow must have spent a lot of time wrestling stable boys or catching pigs or whatever it was that bastards who weren’t Jon did to pass the time, because he dodged and deflected Whitehill’s violent struggles with seasoned ease. The crowd gasped and winced when the young lord was slammed onto his back by his throat, a move that looked painful even from a safe distance. The match ended a few holds later when a heavy tackle finally knocked Whitehill half out of the ring without a single point to his name.

“I can’t imagine Roose Bolton taught his bastard to do that,” Theon said vacantly, a strange cold heat fluttering in his stomach.

Ramsay was dusting the dirt and sand from his thighs, eyes half-lidded as they found Theon’s face. Even from a distance it was clear that the alpha’s pupils must have been stretched wide, the rise and fall of his chest a mesmerizing sight. Then he pivoted and returned back to his seat, leaving Theon with a mystifying flush.

After that display the matches seemed to blur together. As the winners began to enter their second rounds, the energy and vigor in the air became self-feeding. The fights had thoroughly lost their veneer of lordly decorum, with alphas openly snarling and locking into one another with animalistic ferocity.

Theon profusely thanked his few lucky stars when Ser Marlon of Manderly was defeated by one of the Karstark boys - only to cringe when the Umber champion was defeated in a long and brutal match with an even larger human leviathan from House Wull. The mountain clans hated the Ironborn perhaps more than any other Northern faction; Theon had little doubt that if victorious the Wulls would make a truer prisoner of him than the Starks ever had, and with the added expectation of whelping babes.

Flint fell to Cerwyn, Wells to Stane, Ironsmith to Mollen, Watermen to Snow. As participants dwindled and showed up to their fights progressively bruised and winded, Theon began to feel his own anxieties catching up to him. By sunset he would know the name and face of his future alpha. The entire course of his life to come would be laid before him.

Some of the men were beginning to look particularly worse for wear, including a few who had been disqualified. The representative from House Liddle wobbled on unsteady legs and the Umber beast slumped like a dead bear in his seat. The Wull demon, who by sheer size and build would be the favor to win, had begun to look rather pale.

“Robb,” Theon said wryly. “How many of my suitors got piss-drunk before competing for my hand?”

“Uh,” was the only answer.

“I’m sure I’ll be more insulted once it’s over,” Yara said, watching as Roger Stout emptied his guts at the foot of the stands. “Do not take my entertainment for lack of offense, Stark.”

“They do get a little rowdy in the evenings, but I didn't think…“ Robb trailed off helplessly. “Perhaps we should resume tomorrow.”

“We will not. If they didn’t think my little brother was worth fighting for sober, then they’ll fight ankle-deep in their own bile for all I care.”

An approximate third of the men were showing signs of drunken revelry gone wrong - sickness, loss of balance, considerable drop in energy - to varying degrees of severity. Several of them had made it to the final rungs of the competition only to be dismissed by a disgusted Ser Rodrik when they could hardly stand upright.

The sober majority carried on, though a few of them were clearly distracted by what was transpiring amongst their number. Ramsay Snow was of those who remained focused, even with his bruised chest and split lip. Theon supposed he must have truly wanted that legitimization, but it was still striking to see him toppling his opponents in succession, and with the same ferocity with which he’d started. At one point he’d managed to get the Karstark suitor in an armlock, with the latter refusing to tap out or yield. The crack of dislocating bone elicited a small scream from Sansa’s throat.

Somehow, over the course of an afternoon, a nameless bastard had found himself in the final running to be not only Theon’s alpha, but the victor over all the noble alphas assembled from across the North. If Theon’s jaw could have come unhinged, it would have. A mixture of awe, despair and intrigue mingled within him.

His choice was now narrowed down to two: one was a hulking mountain lord who hated Theon’s people and likely had a cock that could dig post holes; the other an ice-veined bastard with blood the likes of which Theon had mocked Jon for across the better part of a decade.

When Snow stood before Wull their difference in size should have been comedic, but the effect was very different when the latter was in such an unmoored state. Wull had won his last few matches as if in a daze, his eyes staring forward dull and unfocused.

When given the signal the mountain lord charged like a bull, unevenly but with great force. Snow sidestepped, upsetting his opponent’s balance to lock an arm around his neck from behind. Wull lasted about five seconds in the chokehold before slumping into the dirt - not so much from strangulation as his own bodily condition.

Ramsay Snow stood haplessly at the giant’s side. “… I don’t think I can continue, my lord.”

Robb rubbed his temples tiredly. He glanced searchingly at his father, who only wordlessly bowed his head by a small fraction.

“There’s no need to continue.”

Ramsay looked from his snoring opponent to the heir of Winterfell. “Should we try again tomorrow, then?”

Robb’s eyes trailed to Yara, who met his gaze with an arched brow.

“No. I think we’ve all seen enough.” He rose to his feet and the pressure in Theon’s veins rose with him. “Ramsay Snow. As heir to the North and overseer of this contest, I name you the rightful victor. You’ve conducted yourself with distinction and from what I’ve seen these past weeks, the Dreadfort could not have a worthier heir, nor Theon a worthier husband.”

Theon could very well protest that, but frankly he was too shaken to try.

* * *

It was an occasion that would be talked about for years to come, that was for certain. The Great Northern Cockfight where literally everyone involved walked away shamed: the drunken suitors for falling to pieces in the arena, Robb for his failure to keep them under control the night before, the sober suitors for being bested by a bastard, and Theon for being the highborn prince arranged to marry him.

In one fell swoop a right mockery had been made of every other young lord in the North. Only Ramsay Snow not only walked away unscathed, but better off than when he’d started.

Yara was almost infuriatingly fine with the outcome ( _“Bastards aren’t as hated in the islands as they are here, if you’ll try to remember-”_ ) up until she asked where exactly the Dreadfort was. Cradled by the eastern mountains and less than a week’s travel to the Shivering Sea by horse - swifter still via the Weeping Water - it was practically inaccessible to the Iron Fleet. In her own words, completely unacceptable.

“This tournament was your family’s idea, if you'll recall.” Robb replied. “If given our own way Theon would have married a fine local lord of our choosing.”

Theon couldn’t help but grimace a bit at the thought. Even with all things considered, he would not call being the omegan bride of Jory Cassel or Benfred Tallheart an ideal outcome.

“The tournament would have gone well enough if you had done your proper job!”

“Marrying Theon into House Wull means ‘well enough’ to you, does it?”

“At least his family could be there for him if needed!” Yara snapped. “Now he’ll be further from his people than ever!”

“The Dreadfort is less than two weeks’ travel from Winterfell,” Robb said, and it was indicative of the North’s sheer size that this seemed so moderate in his mind. “Roose Bolton is a good lord to quiet lands. Theon is to be the Lord Consort of a noble house with a very long and esteemed history.”

On and on the arguments raged, but Theon knew it would come to naught. Despite Yara’s outrage, there was no indication that their father would be bothered by the news. Her hands were tied. Ramsay Snow had won the contest and the Starks were beholden to their word.

Belligerent former suitors were sent home to face their wrathful fathers, Ned Stark drafted his petition to the king, and arrangements were made for a wedding. It would take place in the Winterfell godswood for convenience, with the Boltons and a retinue of their men making the journey to attend. Once all was done Theon would be escorted by his new family back to the Dreadfort.

“He’ll be married beneath the heart tree, of course,” Robb was saying, making notes on a sheet of parchment.

“That so?”

“Is it not customary for the bride to be married in the faith of the groom where you’re from?”

“Bold words from the man whose father was wed in a sept,” Yara shot back. “I suppose you think _you’re_ giving him away?”

“It is a role typically filled by a male alpha relation,” Robb said warily.

“Or female, as the case demands,” Yara retorted. “He’s my little brother, I’ll do it.”

“He’s under Stark custody. We’re the ones who’ve raised him. Giving him away is our right.”

“Yes, I can tell you think so.”

“As his foster brother-“

“But he’s not your brother,” Yara cut in bluntly. “He’s your hostage.”

Robb turned as red as his hair. “That’s not-“

“It is. You can call him a ‘ward’ if it suits your sensibilities, but the fact is that Theon _had_ real brothers, and your noble father killed them. He’s not yours,” Yara pointedly yanked the parchment back. “He’s _mine_.”

“I heard father was going to do it,” Jon said from the corner, up until that point having gone blissfully ignored.

Robb and Yara both deflated somewhat, although they continued to send dark looks the other’s way.

“Fine,” Yara said shortly. “Ned Stark is the one who owns Theon now, after all. Why shouldn’t it be he who passes him off like chattel?”

Gods. Between Robb and Yara’s bickering and the competing scents being thrown between them, the most appealing notion was for Theon to seal himself into his chambers and never emerge again. On several occasions he had caught the two of them ‘casually’ touching or brushing against him in an attempt to leave a scent marker, which felt less like a supportive gesture and more like yet another alpha pissing contest that he was simply meant to spectate.

As if to prove him right neither of them (who smelled equally like siblings to his omegan nose) noticed when he left them to their disputes. Arrangements for the wedding would progress with little input on Theon’s part regardless. The ceremony itself would be rather short, as was standard when dealing with the old gods. However the feast, transport of the dowry, legitimization of the groom, and the travels of the groom's party to Winterfell would all take time.

Theon’s first proper meeting with Ramsay Snow would be beneath the heart tree.

* * *

Theon had never exerted his imagination in picturing his wedding day. It was something he knew he’d have to go through eventually, as Lord of Pyke with the responsibility of furthering the family line… but he could never have envisioned it like this.

The arrival of the Bolton party had been like a pitcher of ice water down Theon’s back. It meant that there was no more stalling, no more pending tasks to be cleared; where once things had seemed to progress so slowly, now they were moving at lightning speed.

Lord Bolton was not a man to mince words or drag things out. Whatever conversations he had with Lord Stark in the solar were brief and apparently agreeable. He also took no issue with the dowry, barely examining the presentation of wagons bearing armor, chainmail, shields and swords of the finest steel. They all knew that the offering was purely for the pride of those involved - any lord with an ounce of sense would have accepted a barrel of raw fish if it meant marrying his bastard to a great house.

Yara had insisted on Ironborn pre-wedding customs before the ceremony. Attended by two omegas from his sister’s crew, Theon was bathed in the hot springs, frisked with birches and then doused in cold saltwater to make him “pure”. The girls weren’t gentle about it either, promptly extinguishing any lust he might have felt for them. They forewent scented soaps or perfumes. As the birching had enhanced his natural scent, leaving his skin flushed and blood thrumming, and any floral or fragrant embellishments would defeat the purpose.

After the bathing ritual, Sansa and Jeyne Poole had somehow wheedled Ned’s permission to participate (no doubt to Lady Catelyn’s disdain) in the remaining bridal preparations. They flushed and tittered at the sight of Theon in smallclothes, but for the most part were caught up in the excitement of vicarious living.

“Oh Theon, your gown is _so_ lovely!” Sansa gushed, swaying the skirts of her own fine dress. “I didn’t know the Iron Islands _had_ lovely things!”

The girl seemed oblivious to the backhanded nature of her words, but fortunately none of the Ironborn in the room were inclined to note it.

“I’m not wearing a dress.” A man had to put his foot down somewhere.

His attendants exchanged weary glances. The seadevils had been stoically contending with his bad mood all evening. They were of a different stock from the Winterfell maids for certain, who would have likely been scared off or tearful by now.

“Please m’lord. It is custom.”

“Yes, you have to wear it!” Sansa exclaimed as Jeyne nodded fiercely.

Putting male omegas in gowns was not unheard of, but with them being so scarce, the sight of a man in skirts was still not a normal one. As a result it was still hardly a dignified practice.

“I’ll look like a fool.”

He reluctantly let the girls lead him further into the bridal chamber, where a full-length mirror and the readied layers of the ensemble were waiting.

“Tis fabric taken your mother’s own gown. And your sister had the cuirass made special,” the other attendant said, impatience clear in her tone. “I understand you think being omega is some great shame, but we must all contend with the lots we’re given.”

Theon scowled in contempt, eyes taking in the white silk. The skirts were hemmed with silvery thread and dotted with saltwater pearls, the cut and flow of it more characteristic of the previous generation. The gown’s bodice was newer, clearly tailored to accommodate the shape of a male waist. The ivory velvet was adorned with intricate stitching and beading, all done in silver and blue thread in the likeness of branching coral and sea stars.

Yara probably thought she was doing him some kindness. It was getting to be a pattern with her, always reminding him of mother when he got too uppity.

“Only for one evening, m’lord.”

God damn it all.

The gown was layered over white leggings as a meager protection against the light snow that had begun to fall outside. When the corset was placed upon him, it was laced so tight that he nearly struck the woman responsible on instinct.

“Wrenching my waist will hardly make anyone forget I’m a man,” Theon hissed through grit teeth.

“The only one who fears forgetting seems to be you,” was the smooth reply. “M’ _lord_.”

“What’s that for?” Jeyne asked, doe eyes wide as the attendants eased him into the cuirass.

Although lightweight and purely ceremonial, the breastplate was genuine steel. It flashed in the light and covered him from collar to waist, the metal etched and shaped with a kraken’s likeness. His mother’s skirts flowed from it like water, pearls glimmering down to his ankles.

“It’ll come off when the cloak does,” Theon said stiffly, still adjusting to the corset’s embrace.

“It’s symbolic of the bride surrendering maidenhood and seafaring to be a dutiful wife,” one of the attendants explained. “We have omega sailors and warriors in the islands, but upon marriage they are expected to commit to their husband’s house and put down arms.”

“A warrior bride is desirable because it means she - or he - is blessed by the Drowned God, will bear strong sons and can protect the children whilst the father is at sea,” the other continued. “The shedding of armor expresses submission to, as well as trust in the greater strength of the husband.”

“It covers up the pretty needlework,” Sansa said, making a face at the kraken staring back at her.

“It’s quite striking though, don’t you think?” Jeyne said. “Theon looks very striking.”

Given that the armor was the only part of the whole ordeal he felt somewhat comfortable with, he’d better.

A long black cloak lined with white sealskin and bearing the Greyjoy symbol was secured about his shoulders. Finally his kransen was removed, put in a box to be stored away for a future omega child, and in its place he was crowned with a silver bridal circlet.

When all was done Theon scarcely recognized his own image. He had not had access to a mirror in some time, and the reflection was something of a rude awakening. Ever since his presentation his body had begun to lose muscle bulk. Though he’d remained diligent in the archery range, what with it being the only form of combat he could still participate in, his form now had an undeniable softness to it. His beard had always been slow to grow in, then fiercely tended and guarded once it was. It’d been shaven off of course, leaving his face disquietingly boyish and his eyes all the more prominent.

He looked like an omega. The knowledge nearly toppled him.

“I might be ill.”

“So long as it’s not on your gown.”

“It’s alright to be nervous!” Jeyne said, she and Sansa fluttering to his side. “An omega’s wedding is the most important day of their life!”

“Your husband might be a…” Sansa trailed off. “But he was quite fearsome in the mating contest! You’ll be the Lord Consort of his castle, too.”

“I’d rather be Lord of the Iron Islands.”

One of the attendants gave a snort and clumsily covered it with a cough. He glared at her.

“Why would you want to go to that dour place?” Sansa asked. “Maester Luwin says that Ironborn take on several brides for every lord. How could you stand to wed a man who beds so many others?”

“You think that because on the mainland an alpha only weds once that he keeps but one lover?” Theon laughed. “Alphas take omegas, as many and as often as they can. It’s their nature. Even your lord father.”

Sansa scowled. “That’s not-“

“At least where I’m from we have a system. A man can take as many salt brides as he can support; the more wives he has the more virile, strong and wealthy he is. It’s practically a feature,” Theon said airily. “It’s better for the family to have multiple omegas on hand to collectively attend the children. And the rock wife’s status is absolute - I would have had the run of the household.”

The girls were looking at him in open shock.

“So you wouldn’t care?” Jeyne asked, voice scarcely more than a whisper. “If your husband takes other omegas?”

Theon thought for a moment. Bastards were known to be lustful, so he could hardly be surprised if he caught Ramsay between the legs of some slattern.

“Having salt wives is different from having mistresses. The former is part of the family unit with the salt wives subservient to my authority. The latter has the potential to dishonor me… but my misgivings wouldn’t be a matter of jealousy, understand?” He shrugged. “I suppose I could still overlook it, so long he makes it clear that I am held in highest esteem, and so long as the whores know their place.”

Even better if Theon were allowed to fuck the wenches too… he wasn’t fool enough to risk a bastard pregnancy, and he certainly didn’t want to end up the way his aunt had at Uncle Victarion’s hand. So long as he never let another _alpha_ take him, surely there was no harm done? Omegas bedding omegas was harmless.

“Enough talk.” Theon was pulled to his feet and instructed to step into a pair of coral-beaded slippers. “It’s time.”

* * *

Ned Stark was waiting in the entrance hall, wearing what Theon recognized as one of his finer doublets beneath a wolfskin cloak.

He smiled at his daughter, who was still skipping excitedly at Theon’s arm, before turning his gaze. There was a look in the man’s eyes that was hard to decode, not that Theon had ever been able to know his lord’s mind.

“Doesn’t he look lovely?” Sansa said with a bright grin. “It’s so exciting. Theon getting married! Who would have thought?”

“It’s a glad occasion.” Ned politely tilted his brow towards the doors. “You two should run on ahead. I know your mothers are waiting.”

He waited until the girls had scurried down the path before stepping forward. Theon held his breath for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“Theon. You look very handsome.”

Handsome. Sure. He lowered his eyes respectfully all the same.

“Thank you, my lord.”

For another brief minute Ned continued to look at him. With both arms folded behind his back, his posture an exercise in propriety. Finally he spoke.

“Ten years ago I brought you to Winterfell. I know the circumstances were… hard.” Gods, were they going to talk about _this?_ “I like to think that I’ve done my best for you. As best as could be done. For ten years you’ve lived with us and I watched you grow. You’ve watched my children be born and grow. And as hard as the circumstances were, I have always wanted good things for you.”

Theon tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. Was sending him to the godswood shaking and tearful part of Lord Stark’s plan? If so it was well on its way to success.

“You came to us as a cost of war, but it was always my hope that your life here would be the birth of peace between our lands,” Ned threaded Theon’s hand through his arm and took up a lantern. “I am very proud of you.”

A small, hysterical noise escaped Theon’s throat, an unhinged combination of a laugh and a sob. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Ned mercifully did not comment as he took the lead. The way though the godswood was lined with lanterns, many of which were held by faces Theon recognized. Stark men and high-ranking guards, noble servants and his sister’s shipmates. The unfamiliar guests must have been the Bolton party. As they drew nearer to the heart tree Theon could see his sister and the Stark family assembled in the wings.

Standing before the weirwood was Ramsay and his father, the both of them dressed in black and red with pale pink cloaks on their shoulders.

Lord Bolton stepped forward. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

“Theon of the House Greyjoy comes here to be wed,” Lord Stark replied levelly. “An omega grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. He comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim him?”

Ned must have felt it when Theon’s hand began to clench and fuss at the lord’s arm. He must have.

Ramsay was staring into the depths of Theon’s soul, an almost knowing look on his face. “Ramsay of House Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort. Who gives him?”

“Eddard, of the House Stark.” He set the torch down to the snow and put a hand over Theon’s own. “Who is his guardian.”

Roose Bolton turned to Theon, his gaze colder but no less intense than his son’s. “Prince Theon, will you take this man?”

For an awful moment he wasn’t sure he had a voice to reply with. He tried to summon the words but they wouldn’t come. His heart was hammering in his chest, no doubt echoing within the confines of his armor. He closed his eyes and inhaled deep.

“I take this man.” His voice cracked. Noticeable and humiliating, but at least he’d done his part.

Ned pulled free of his grip and Theon crept forward, accepting both of Ramsay’s outstretched hands. Up close he could see that his groom’s eyes were a pale, steely shade of blue, and that they apparently didn’t need to blink as much as other men’s.

They knelt together amidst the roots of the heart tree, its bloodred face gaping down at them. Silence permeated the godswood, so deeply that Theon was sure his breathing could be heard by all. His own mind was blank of prayers, though perhaps there was no better time for it. Then the moment was done and he was being pulled to his feet.

Ramsay tugged the Greyjoy cloak from his shoulders and handed it to Yara. Next he undid the buckles of the cuirass, which was taken from him by Robb. Finally he shed the pink Bolton cloak from his back and smoothly draped it across Theon’s own.

Quick and simple as that, it was done.

Ramsay’s hand was warm and calloused as he pulled Theon from the godswood. The closer they got to the great hall the more the wedding guests shook off their silence, talking and laughing amongst themselves. The time for solemn ceremonies was done and the time for a wedding feast had come.

The pair of them were sat side by side at the center table overlooking the rest of the party. Ironborn honey mead had been sent on the same ship bearing the dowry, specifically to be served at the wedding feast. Bride and groom were to drink it from the same chalice, infernally dubbed the loving-cup, as part of sanctifying the union. Ramsay drank first, eyes watching from over the lip of the cup and never straying. Theon took it from him, aware now of every time their skin touched, and drank his own part.

Ramsay Snow - no, Bolton now, fucking hell - was both more and less up close. He cleaned up well enough, but the image of him in the arena with knuckles bruised and blood dribbling from his lip was a hard one to match. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, Theon could fully take in the haunting shade of his eyes and the boyish charm of his smile… but more than any of that was his _scent._

It was a clean sort of musk, not especially pungent or sharp, but woodsy and rugged. As the feast wore on Theon found it overpowering the smell of the food in front of him. If this was how Bolton managed in general, during a rut he must be outright smothering. Theon tried to eat despite the smog clouding his senses, causing his thoughts to wander to images of dense pine and fresh earth.

He continued to toy with his utensils until a broad hand fell on his wrist to stop him.

“That’s enough of that.”

Theon looked up with a scowl. “Excuse me?”

There was sudden movement throughout the hall. His attention was immediately captured by the Bolton men making for their table. Realization was swift and harsh.

“We don’t - no one actually -“ It was such a crass old custom, surely they wouldn’t?

“Traditions are important,” Ramsay said easily, rising as a flock of giggling maidens began to hover by his chair. “Especially when everyone knows what a trollop Theon Greyjoy was. You don’t want to dishonor me, do you?”

Theon was momentarily staggered for words. “Dishonor _you,_ you-“

Ramsay made a gesture over Theon’s shoulder and instantly there were hands pulling him from his seat.

The second they were out of the great hall the men lost all pretense of propriety. The Bolton cloak was yanked from him, and though he wasn’t sorry to see it go it still left him cold in the corridor. Fabric was loudly ripped open to expose his chest, where grubby calloused fingers shamelessly groped and squeezed his nipples. His corset and leggings were discarded much the same way, with one of the men having the audacity to sharply smack his bare thigh.

Theon kicked and even struck some of the brutes away, but for every one of them he shoved off another seemed to take his place. Their jeers and laughter rang in his ears as they half-dragged, half-carried him to the bedding chamber.

“Ramsay’s got himself a live one,” one of them grunted through his bleeding nose. “I’m gonna enjoy seeing him _break_ you, Ironborn tramp.”

Theon was all but thrown through the doorway, smallclothes dangling from one ankle, when strong arms rose to steady him. The door slammed loudly shut. He moved to right himself but was stopped by the unyielding grip on his body.

“Well, this is certainly new,” Ramsay’s voice was light and playful, hands groping at the expanse of bare skin on display. “They told me you’re still a maiden where it counts. I had my doubts, but by your shuddering I’d believe it.”

Theon felt heat bloom across his face at the realization that Ramsay was also naked, their bodies closely pressed together. He forcefully straightened, stepping back to place some breathing space between them. Ramsay allowed it, if only for the opportunity to examine Theon’s body.

“Never met one of your kind before. When I was a boy I even thought male omegas were a myth. Little mistakes of nature, aren’t you?” His eyes traveled from Theon’s thighs to his flaccid cock. “Hm.”

Theon didn’t know what to say. He’d never been spoken to like that by _anyone_ , least of all a bastard who owed Theon his very name. Ramsay seemed indifferent with his own nudity, half hard and rising as he circled Theon’s body like a predator.

“Oh, I hope I don’t offend. It’s just what people say, isn’t it? You are very lovely, I assure you.”

Theon was starting to feel confused. Was he being insulted or not? Ramsay’s scent was also starting to permeate the room, making it harder to think straight. Suddenly he was being clutched tightly from behind, a hard cock pressing against the back of his hip. Ramsay inhaled deeply into the curve of Theon’s neck.

“When that scrap of your sheets was sent to us, father didn’t even tell me where it came from. I knew I had to have you as soon as I sampled your scent. Before I even learned your name.” A pause. “Not that it _is_ your name. Not anymore at least.”

“I’m still Theon Greyjoy,” he said tensely. “I may be an omega but I’m still an Ironborn man. I’m the son of a great house and to keep my name is my right.”

It was a right even omega women were afforded. The thought of going by Theon _Bolton_ the rest of his days turned his stomach.

Ramsay’s grip tightened, nails sinking into the soft flesh of Theon’s waist and thigh. “I think you’re being unreasonable, sweetling. After all, you’re to be the lady of my house. You’re never returning to the islands. You should pay me my due respect.”

“ _Respect_?“ Theon spluttered. “You’re the heir because of me. You owe _me_ , not the other way around!”

A growl rumbled from Ramsay’s chest, silencing Theon immediately through pure instinct.

“I earned you through my own blood and hard work. I bested every alpha lordling in the nation to win you, _prince_. You. Are. _Mine_.”

With a fierce shove Theon was sent sprawling across the bed, where he was quickly manhandled onto hands and knees.

“Wait a second-“

“For what?” Ramsay spread Theon’s legs apart, humming to himself as he took in what he saw. “Let’s see here…”

Theon yelped at the sudden intrusion into his body, the rough finger probing and stroking at his inner walls.

“There we are. Tight, aren’t you?” Ramsay said excitedly. “You’ve really never fucked anyone save for with that useless cock of yours?”

“My cock works just f-fine!” Theon said, hands fisting the sheets.

“I didn’t say it was broken, I said it was useless.” Ramsay briefly palmed it, chuckling at how Theon’s hips stuttered. “I can’t say I care for the size either. Bit ridiculous considering you don’t even need it.”

It was getting hard to think sensibly between Ramsay’s forceful scent and curious ministrations. The fact that Theon hadn’t been touched intimately in months, ever since he presented, had him leaning into the contact more than he’d ever admit. Even though he undoubtedly wanted to throttle the bastard, he was also starved for sex and thoroughly distracted.

He couldn’t lie to himself and say that Ramsay Bolton smelled anything less than fantastic, the scent of his alpha setting his traitorous body alight. Theon's animal brain was rabidly telling the rest of him to be silent, to be offended and bear the burden of rational thought later - especially when the unexpected feeling of a warm, wet tongue lapping at his slick had him shouting into a pillow.

“Tastes like an omega… and certainly feels like a maid.” Ramsay mused with a soft laugh. “Screams like one, too.”

“I hate you,” Theon was barely coherent, but that at least was a fully formed thought in his addled mind.

“That’s not kind,” Ramsay said, withdrawing his finger. “I’m your Lord Husband now.”

“You’re no lord to me.”

“We’ll see.” Ramsay’s cock pressed against Theon’s entrance like a threat. “Apologize. Then ask me nicely and I’ll be gentle.”

Theon froze, the air stolen from his lungs. In an instant he remembered all of his nights at the whorehouse, plowing into the girls without a care for their comfort. He’d assumed they enjoyed it, but now with that _thing_ teasing against him he wasn’t so sure.

But he was no coward. He swallowed and moved his grip to the headboard.

“Why don’t you quit boring me,” he said, voice painfully even, “and show me what you’re made of already.”

Ramsay laughed, breathy and surprised. He braced his hands on Theon’s thighs.

“You and I are going to have _such_ fun together, my lady.”

Penetration was swift and without compromise, Ramsay sliding his way in heedless of resistance or his partner’s screams. The bastard felt even bigger than he looked, warm and firm against the untouched places within Theon’s body.

Painful as it was (dots were swarming his vision and he didn’t know how he’d walk in the morning) it was, strangely enough, what Theon needed. He _wanted_ a battle. He had been stewing in repressed bitterness and rage for _months_ now, and he wanted teeth and blood and spite. He couldn’t have handled soft treatment in that moment, and if his groom had tried Theon would have likely goaded and baited him into cruelty anyway.

A shudder worked its way down Theon’s back. “Is that it?”

He could feel Ramsay smile against the curve of his shoulder. Then the man straightened, adjusting his stance. Theon hissed at the feeling of that thick cock rubbing and shifting inside him. It slowly eased out, testing the slide and give, before roughly slamming back in. Theon clung to the headboard as it rocked and thudded against the wall with each thrust. Ramsay fucked into him like an animal, the vicious beast from the tournament making itself known at last.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Ramsay said lowly. “Imagined taking you in that arena. My sweet-scented prince, fucked into the blood and dirt for all to see-“

Theon failed to stifle a groan, the image of it clear in his mind. Claimed like the prize he was, filthy and rough on his knees by a strong and fearsome alpha.

The air was filled with the pant of their breathing, the creak and slam of the bed frame, and slap of flesh as their bodies moved together. Theon could feel Ramsay’s sack hit against him with every thrust, growing tense as the peak of climax grew nearer.

“I was promised strong sons from you,” Ramsay whispered. “I’m going to fill you up every bloody night, until you’re fat with them. You’ll wear my scent until it’s a part of you, until you won’t know where I end and you start-“

Theon’s eyes had glazed over, body shaking as he drooled into the sheets. His own cock was fully erect against his stomach, leaking to match the slick wetting his thighs. When Ramsay sank his teeth into the pounding, swollen gland in his neck, the scream that escaped him wasn’t from pain.

The bastard had easily broken skin, red dribbling warmly onto the sheets. Theon saw stars, the chemicals in his alpha’s saliva reacting with those of his omegan mating gland, a pure rush of euphoria going straight to his head. His orgasm peaked and tore through him like a tidal wave, his body clamping down on Ramsay’s length. He felt the shudder of his alpha’s climax and the warmth of seed, followed by the heavy swelling of a knot. It slotted perfectly against Theon’s source of pleasure, deep inside.

They went boneless together, Ramsay’s full weight bearing down upon him. Even whilst sore and bleeding Theon was faintly aware of the contented purr in his chest. He mindlessly basked in his mate’s scent and encompassing warmth. His alpha’s chest rose and fell against his back, tongue lazily licking and exploring the fresh claiming bite.

Ramsay Bolton might have been a bastard and a savage, but it was beyond denying that their bodies were compatible. If it felt like this now, one could only imagine what it’d be like during a rut or heat… and gods help them both when their cycles synchronized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13k and we barely get past the wedding I KNOWW. But because I absolutely REFUSE to have 4 WIPs on the board I am working double time to get this done asap, hopefully in the coming week. Then we’ll be finishing XOXO, then Katabasis, and THEN finally I’ll know peace. ((At this rate By Tooth and Claw will be the Halloween fic of 2020 instead of 2019 zjkgnjjh time sure is something ain’t it))
> 
> It's not a fic by me without some ridiculous notes, so here:  
> \- The concept of virginity has varied across cultures; at one point in Ancient Greece, “virgin” simply meant unmarried. In other cultures, sex was defined as being specifically reproductive, so gay intercourse literally “didn’t count” and you could still be considered a virgin if you only laid with the same sex. Thus in this case Theon is still considered a virgin, especially since he’d never been penetrated. This has been your annual reminder that virginity is a myth and heteronormativity is hilarious.  
>    
> \- Most of the references made to Ironborn customs come from irl Norse traditions. The bathing ritual, the loving-cup, kransen (a gilt circlet worn by unmarried women in Norse viking society) and wedding crown are examples. Theon’s wedding ensemble is inspired by depictions of valkyries and the Norse goddess Freyja, who was said to simply strap armor atop her gown when called to battle. Pictured below; ignore the helmet and the tiddy armor (unless you're? into that? that's cool too).  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

Wakefulness came slowly that morning.

Theon was first aware of the heavy weight pinning him to the bed, then the deep musk filling his nostrils. He squirmed beneath Ramsay’s body in an attempt to wriggle free but the man only shifted and held him tighter, a sleepy but ominous growl rumbling through the alpha’s chest. Theon went limp with a huff.

Sunlight was filtering in through the curtains. It would nearly be time to break their fast, at which point arrangements would be made for travel to the Dreadfort.

Theon couldn’t even think of traveling in that moment. His entire lower body was sore beyond measure. After that first time they had gone twice more, Ramsay unrelenting late into the night. Theon grimaced at the feeling of the alpha still inside him, knot having long gone down but the heavy bastard refusing to budge even in sleep.

Everything hurt - from the obvious ache between his legs to the stiffness of his joints, the blood-crusted slope of his neck, and the bruises decorating his wrists, thighs, hips, upper arms and throat. Ramsay had the apparent habit of simply handling his partner into the position of his choice and then accepting no input on the matter.

It hadn’t been so bad, at the time. Or maybe it had and Theon just hadn’t cared. Ramsay’s warmth, his touch, the smell of his skin and the thrum of power in his body - so many other sensations had made the pain easy to ignore. Maybe even arousing. Theon shuddered as he recalled the way he’d moaned and leaned into the hot palms choking his air. Now he almost found himself wishing the move had killed him. He had always been a bit mindless regarding his physical pleasures, inclined to feel first and think later, but he hadn’t ever felt so dumb with sensation before.

That being said, he was well ready to have Ramsay’s cock out of him.

Without ceremony Theon craned his neck to sink his teeth deep into the juncture of Ramsay’s pale shoulder. Feeling the ripple of the other man’s waking only inspired him to gnaw down harder. The meaty heel of Ramsay’s palm crashed without warning across Theon’s jaw, swatting him off as casually as one would a horsefly.

“Nn. Good morning to you too.” Ramsay yawned.

“Good morning. Get off me.”

Ramsay only laid back down even harder, compressing the air from Theon’s lungs. He gave a catlike stretch, a pleased rumble in his chest. Blinking his icy eyes fully awake, he looked down at Theon with a placid gaze.

“Never thought I’d someday wake up married to a prince,” Ramsay said, walking his fingers up the line of Theon’s collarbone. “Or ha, princess as the case may be.”

He pointedly shifted his hips, cock rubbing against Theon’s bruised insides. Theon grit his teeth so tight the muscles in his neck throbbed.

“Get. Off. Me.”

“Why? You’ll bite me again? Please do.”

Theon could feel Ramsay getting harder and made a weak attempt to squirm away. “No. I can’t go again, damn you-“

Ramsay was already rolling back to sit on his knees, hands pulling and positioning Theon’s legs.

“Didn’t think I’d have to educate you on a husband’s rights,” Ramsay said, eliciting a hiss as he rocked in and out of Theon’s body. “Aren’t the Ironborn known for taking whatever quim they want?”

“Stop, it- it’s too much-“ Theon choked on his own spittle as Ramsay slid against a particularly sensitive spot within him.

What was wrong with him? He didn’t want it. He knew he didn’t want it. And yet-

“Your mouth says one thing but your body says different,” Ramsay laughed softly. “I wouldn’t have taken you for one of _those_ types.”

Theon fixed him with a cold glare. His lower lip was sore and swollen from biting down his sounds.

“Don’t be difficult,” Ramsay rubbed a nipple with the rough pad of his thumb. “Be honest with your Lord Husband.”

It still hurt - every muscle rioted in protest at being taken again and the abused place between his legs pulsed painfully in time with his heartbeat. And yet he could feel how wet he was, both with slick as well as the abundant seed Ramsay had spilled in him over and over again throughout the night. The feeling of being so filthy and claimed and dripping with his alpha’s desire left Theon panting.

“Tell me what you are,” Ramsay hummed.

Theon’s brow pinched in confusion. “… Your Lord Consort?”

Another slap, harder this time and punctuated with a particularly rough thrust.

“Try again.”

Theon choked on the blood in his mouth. His head swam with each press of his lord’s hips.

“I- I-“ His next inhale was a sniffle. “I’m your omega. Your bride.”

It was the last coherent thought he had for a while.

* * *

When they were finally able to unseal the door for the servants to bring them their day clothes, the first meal of the day had past. Lunchtime was uncomfortable in more ways than one. Getting out of bed was a physical struggle, once Ramsay finally finished having his way, and it was obvious to anyone looking that Theon was walking like a new whore after her first night of service. Most of the bruises were easily covered, save for his neck which was left exposed to display the proof of their consummation. The swell of his punctured mating spot was even darker than the hand-shaped marks around his throat. Yara hadn’t thought much of it.

“My lovers and I play games too,” was all she said, and yet the words would likely haunt Theon for a while to come - Robb as well judging by his scandalized expression.

Yara and her crew readied their own departure without much ceremony.

“I don’t need to watch you ride away from me twice, little brother,” she said with a kiss to his brow. “Send me a raven when your secondborn is old enough to hold a sword, should you be willing to part with him.”

Robb was a little more difficult. Often his sky blue eyes darted to look at Ramsay with hesitant suspicion, even though it was known how rough alphas could be when they lost themselves to their lust. The last thing Theon needed was Robb Stark making a scene to publicly defend Theon Greyjoy’s honor from his own husband.

He was not weak. He could handle himself.

In the night the servants had finished packing and emptying out Theon’s chambers. Chests were piled full of his fine clothes, as well as various other keepsakes collected over the course of 10 years. Theon did not have much, truth be told. So much of his allowance had always gone to wine and women.

“I’ll visit you,” Robb said, the pair of them sat in the now-empty bedchamber. “Thrice a year at least. And you’ll write to me always.”

“Forever and always.” Theon recited automatically.

Even then the sour feeling in his stomach remained. He knew that even if they stayed true to their word things would never be the same. There was no returning to the way things had once been.

“I don’t want you to go,” Robb said softly, as if ashamed of his own selfishness.

“I was always going to leave someday. One way or another.”

“… You’ll name your firstborn after me,” Robb said, trying to bring levity to the situation.

“Secondborn. The one Yara will have to raise.”

“That’s not kind.”

“It’s funny though.” Theon rested his head on Robb’s shoulder. “… What if the boy is an omega?”

“Then I will be privileged to have your omega named in my honor. You can give it to me to foster if Yara won’t have it.”

Theon snorted. “You’re mad, Robb Stark.”

When it was finally time to depart - the luggage packed, horses readied and wheelhouse waiting, with the Stark family assembled before the keep… Theon didn’t expect his farewell to Winterfell to affect him as it did.

Once little Rickon seemed to understand that someone was leaving, he wailed in such a manner that Lady Stark was forced to take him in her arms and carry him inside. Bran and Arya each gave him a final embrace as Sansa sniffled at his shoulder, which was utterly mystifying. He had never been close to any of them, but he supposed there was truth to what Lord Stark had said. Theon watched most of them be born and grow; none of the young Starks had ever known a Winterfell that didn’t have Theon in it. It must have been a frightening thing, to be young and realize that everything changed.

Even he and Jon shared an awkward moment, hovering on the edge of one another’s space. It felt like they should have some sort of official parting after all this time, although the years had been filled with little more than strife and resentment.

 _You think I deserve this don’t you,_ whispered some dark corner of Theon’s mind. _You’re glad to be rid of me._

He swallowed the words down with the rest of his bile. He wasn’t going to burden Robb with his bitterness today. He didn’t want to be remembered like that.

“Be seeing you then,” Jon said stiffly, breaking the silence.

“Maybe.” Probably not. “You’ll look after Robb. You know how he is.”

Jon nodded, dark eyes sharp and face grim, as usual. “And you’ll write to him. He’ll be insufferable if you don’t.”

Theon snorted. “Aye, he will.”

Another tense pause.

“Well.” Theon cleared his throat. “Good luck at the Wall and all that. Try to pop your cherry before you swear off it for life. Mark my words, you’ll change your mind.”

Jon’s eyes drifted irritably to the side. “Goodbye Theon.”

“Snow.”

His final farewell to Robb was only a crushing hug, their words having already been exchanged earlier. The moment stretched on, with neither of them willing to be the first to let go.

“… Theon.” His husband’s voice was soft but firm over his shoulder.

Robb was himself being prompted by his father. Slowly the two of them eased apart.

Theon swallowed thickly before turning to take Ramsay’s expectant hand. The grip was shockingly tight as it led him up the wheelhouse steps. Suddenly the gentleman now that the Starks were watching, Ramsay opened the door for him.

“I can ride,” Theon said weakly.

He had ridden distances and camped out before. He knew Smiler was in the procession somewhere. He was still sore, but the idea of being carted about like a southern maiden was insulting.

“The way is long and hard,” Ramsay said, ushering him in the rest of the way. “Besides, omegas need their privacy. You’ll be safe inside. Can’t have any nasty bandits seeing my pretty bride and getting ideas, can we?”

“But-“

The carriage door was promptly shut in his face.

* * *

The road was indeed long and hard, as well as cold even from within the carriage.

Winterfell quickly disappeared from view but Theon’s heart and mind remained in that courtyard. How long did the Starks stand watching the procession disappear beyond the trees? Did Robb lean on Jon for comfort as they returned inside, where Rickon was still kicking up a fuss? Did they often look at the empty place Theon had once occupied at the table? How long would it be before they all grew used to his absence?

Theon pulled the furs tighter around him, wincing at every bump and jostle of the wheelhouse. It was comfortable enough whilst still being a practical transport, but Theon couldn’t help but feel bitter all the same, to be emasculated in such an offhand way. He was a Greyjoy of Pyke, not fucking… _delicate_.

He could hear the men on horseback outside, speaking and japing to one another, and it made him feel just a bit lonesome. The whole affair was a shade too similar to how he’d felt all those years ago, carted from Pyke to Winterfell. Leaving behind the places and people he knew for a land where all was cold and unfamiliar. Every now and then he would hear Ramsay’s voice from further on ahead, too muffled to clearly make out the words but the satisfied glee in his tone unmistakeable.

Ramsay carried himself with remarkable ease and confidence, the likes of which Theon would not expect from a bastard. Even more surprising was how amicably the men seemed to receive him. Ramsay Bolton held an odd sort of status amongst his father’s retainers: he was not treated as inferior on account of his birth, but nor was he elevated as a lord. It was some strange intersection of the two, with the men considering him a rough equal and peer.

It was a far cry from the somber ghost Jon had always been, and Theon had been led to believe that the boy’s circumstances were actually a cut above the norm. Jon was acknowledged and educated and raised amongst his pureblooded siblings, but even he held no authority and commanded no respect or camaraderie from the Stark loyalists. Theon didn’t know quite what to make of it, especially since Roose Bolton didn’t strike as an especially sentimental father, nor generous man in general. Every new scrap of insight gained on his new household left Theon feeling even more confused.

Alone in the carriage, there was not much for Theon to do but think. A trunk of his things was with him, containing a few clothes and keepsakes and even a stack of books from the maester that he’d only ever skimmed as needed for his studies. In his mind he was already writing letters back to Robb - words of doubt and apprehension that he would never actually send.

Eventually the procession stopped for the night, the wheelhouse creaking to a halt. The air was filled with the sounds of horses being unhitched and men chopping firewood. Eager to stretch his legs, Theon slipped out the carriage door and down the steps.

The surrounding forest was completely unfamiliar. The trees were oppressively dense with some trunks too wide to wrap one’s arms around. He could hear the babbling current of the White Knife. It signaled getting a rough third through the journey in regards to distance, but the remaining legs would be the slowest going. From here it was all rough terrain and mountain passes. They would also be taking the slower merchant roads to accommodate the wheelhouse as well as the carts laden with dowry steel.

It occurred to Theon that he’d never been this far inland before. Now every step would actually be taking him closer to the sea, but to an opposite shore. It was heartening to think that Ramsay would have to take him to the water someday. If House Bolton wanted to seat a child on the Seastone Chair, Theon would have to give birth either in the islands or at sea for the babe to be considered Ironborn… and it was plain enough that the former was not for consideration.

For now Theon would have to content himself with the rivers, cold and winding and lacking in salt.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

Theon jumped. He’d been drifting further into the trees, unconsciously seeking out the water. Ramsay was leaning against an old oak, an arrow twirling between his fingers.

“Just walking,” Theon said with a frown. “You’re going hunting, right? I’ll come.”

Ramsay’s brow rose in cruel humor. “Oh, I think not. It’s far too dangerous.”

“Dange- I’m a finer archer than all the men here. You’ve seen it yourself.” And if Ramsay hadn’t, he’d surely heard the other suitors grousing about it after their hunts.

“This isn’t some good-mannered tourney or a romp through the Stark’s yard,” Ramsay said, words sweet and deliberate as if talking to a child. “We’re in the wilds of the North now. I can hardly in good conscience risk any harm befalling my new consort.”

“I’m an Ironborn man, not a fragile maiden,” Theon said, face flushing with anger and embarrassment. “If you wanted the latter, you should have wedded one instead.”

Ramsay sighed loudly, as if Theon were the one being immature and difficult.

“Funny thing about krakens,” he said, meandering his way further into Theon’s space. “Is that as fearsome as they are in the deep, once they come upon the land… well. Nothing but water and jelly, are they? Crushed by their own weight.”

He ran his fingers lightly along the edge of Theon’s jaw, the touch so faint it was barely felt at all.

“I can see you have some very… lofty ideas about yourself, my dear. Let’s play a game. You’ll be you, wandering unattended in the wilderness. And I’ll be a dastardly ruffian that spies a pretty omega alone.”

“Rams-“

Before Theon could react he was suddenly toppling back onto the frosty earth, leaves and twigs crackling beneath him as Ramsay mounted his prone form.

“Stop!”

His fist froze mid-swing as Ramsay pulled a knife from his belt.

“Why should I? What’s to keep me from taking whatever I want?” Ramsay sliced easily through fabric, exposing bare skin to the cool air. “Go on then, Ironborn. Make me stop.”

“G-get off of me!”

He was not so far from camp that no one could hear him. He could hear his own cries and shouts echoing through the trees. No one came.

“I’m not very impressed with your showing. Don’t you _want_ to get away?” Ramsay laughed darkly. “Or maybe you like this.”

A sob escaped Theon’s throat as his belt was discarded into the shrub.

“Tears? That can’t be right. Everyone knows that _Ironborn men_ don’t cry,” Ramsay said, thumb roughly rubbing at the corner of Theon’s eye. “So you must not be an Ironborn man at all. Are you?”

Theon had a cheek pressed hard into the leaves and dirt in an attempt to shrink away. His exposed skin pebbled with goosebumps, nipples hardening in the cold.

“Please let me up,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

It killed him to utter those words, but the idea of being taken here, like this, within earshot of the entire procession… it was too much to bear.

“Oh? For what exactly?”

Theon wanted nothing more than to take a rock in hand and bash that detestable smile from the bastard’s face. He swallowed roughly, mind shuffling through all the insincere apologies he’d given Lord Stark in the past. _These rules are for your safety,_ Ned would say, as if Theon were actually a ward and they didn’t both know what such rules were really for.

“I… I’m sorry for being insolent. When you were trying to protect me.”

“And it won’t happen again.”

“No, Lord Husband.”

Ramsay hummed, pleased. “You’ve delayed me in my hunt, now. With the light fading I don’t suppose I’ll be able to catch you any dinner at all. But that’s what you deserve, isn’t it?”

Theon grit his teeth. “… yes, Lord Husband.”

“Can’t be helped, I suppose. Now,” Ramsay tapped his chin. “Give me a kiss to show there’s no hard feelings.”

_He’s insufferable!_

Theon glowered as he was allowed to sit himself up on shaking arms. Maintaining a wet but pointed glare, he leaned in to press a stern, close-mouthed kiss to his husband’s lips.

Without warning Ramsay tore the remains of Theon’s tattered layers from his shoulders, stripping him half-naked against the Northern chill for anyone to see. He laughed with childlike cruelty as Theon shoved him off, scrambling into a mad dash for the wheelhouse.

“I trust you’ll be staying in the carriage from now on, hm?” Ramsay called after him.

Once the door was shut behind him he crumpled onto the floor, heart racing and arms still hugging at his bare skin. He could hear the whistling and chuckling of the men outside - he was no Northern lady after all, no one here cared if Theon Greyjoy were humiliated or abused in plain sight.

“We haven’t even taken him home yet and you’re already driving him back to the Starks.”

The whole forest seemed to go silent at the sound of Roose Bolton’s voice. Theon found himself leaning ear-first against the door, the man’s voice being so naturally soft and mild.

“… He was being disobedient,” Ramsay said after a moment. “He needed to be shown his place. As my Lord Consort-“

“You’re not Lord of Bolton yet,” Roose replied. “And you’re only the heir at all because of him.”

There was a tense pause.

“He needs to respect me as his husband,” Ramsay stubbornly insisted. “All I did was give him a scare.”

“One scare too many will draw the Starks’ ire. Especially when you perform your indiscretions on the open road, a day’s ride from their door. You’d do well to remember that until your consort is carrying a Bolton child, there is nothing truly binding him to you,” Roose said. “ _All_ that is given can be taken away.”

The camp was quiet from then on out as night fell. Though Theon yearned to sit himself by the fire, he dared not leave the wheelhouse. And despite Roose Bolton’s scolding, no food was brought for him either.

* * *

The temperatures dropped as their altitude increased, the convoy making its slow march into the mountains. There were no more incidents after that first night.

Ramsay made sure that he was Theon’s only contact with the rest of the party, insisting on being the one to bring meals or news. Sometimes he slid into the wheelhouse just to fuck Theon against the wall, heedless of how the whole thing shook and rocked with the force of it. Then Ramsay would simply sit in the corner and unblinkingly watch as Theon washed by wiping sweat and seed from his skin with wet rags.

When the nights were especially cold Ramsay came to bed in the carriage overnight, stealing into the bunk. The forced intimacy turned Theon’s stomach, but the warmth was welcome and the musk of his alpha in his sheets made him feel irrationally settled.

The declaration that they had come upon the Weeping Water put new life into Theon’s veins. For nearly two weeks he had contended with little to no human contact, save for the dubious company of his husband. Now their hard time on the road would be ended.

From the carriage window Theon could see the Dreadfort.

He had been uncertain what to expect, only able to go by name and reputation alone. This was the keep that had been the seat of the Red Kings, whose dominion had stretched from the White Knife to the Last River. The fortress that had held out a two-year siege against Harlon Stark before finally being starved out. There was a time when Theon would have scoffed - the era of the Long Night was a long time past, and it did no good for a keep to cling to old deeds or boast a fearsome reputation whilst its lords grew progressively fat and grey.

Now seeing it, it was clear that the Dreadfort was no Winterfell but it held a certain energy all the same. There was the same cold sense of history and age to it, complemented by sheer size and imposing design. Theon wouldn’t call it a castle, really - it was a stronghold. A grim, fearsomely practical thing built for war. It had high walls of thick stone, with fat towers that could likely house a hundred soldiers each.

From every angle the Dreadfort was inhospitable. At its back were the mountains leading up to Long Lake, at its feet was the wide swath of the frigid Weeping Water. All about its flank was the embrace of dense Northern forest. It was plain to see why one would sooner lock its residents within than attempt to invade. The Dreadfort was, in both build and location, utterly unimpregnable.

As they passed into the great gates and through the barbican, Theon could see in his mind’s eye how the maw of the Dreadfort would swallow him, teeth gnashing shut as the portcullis fell heavily closed.

“Lord Roose of Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort,” was announced, no doubt to the bowed heads and respectfully lowered eyes of the welcome party, as was “Lord Ramsay Bolton, heir of the Dreadfort.”

Theon made an effort to steel himself. He had washed as best he could before changing. Dressed in fine grey breeches and a black doublet with steel buckles and silver kraken stitching, he’d be damned if he made a poor impression on the fort that would soon defer to him.

The carriage door opened, spilling in the pale light of an overcast Northern day. Ramsay’s gloved hand extended through to him and Theon took it with only a moment’s pause before being led down the wheelhouse steps.

“Prince Theon Bolton née Greyjoy, his Lord Consort.”

The welcome assembly was composed of anointed knights, retainers, scouts and squires; guards both noble and common alike, as well as key servants of the household.

They bowed their heads to him, and though Theon’s ego was satisfied there remained an unease in his gut that would not give. He tried to comfort himself by counting his lucky stars that he was not currently being presented to House Wull - there would be no respect from the mountainmen of the west, that was for certain.

Roose dismounted his horse and the retinue bowed even lower, staring almost determinedly at their shoes. Theon had himself decided that the best and easiest course was to treat Lord Bolton as he had once treated Lord Stark, or even as he had once treated his own father. With reverence powered by more than a little fear.

“Tend to the horses and relieve the men,” Roose said as squires and stableboys jumped to do his bidding. “Walton, Locke - we will convene in my solar to discuss the developments of my absence.”

He turned to Theon, eyes looking evermore grey in the bleak afternoon light. “Your effects will be brought to your chambers. I will have servants attend to you and see you settled.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Ramsay said, tightening his grip.

“I’m sure your consort has had more than his fill of you for now, Ramsay. Leave him some peace. You will accompany me to my solar - if you wish to be a lord you might at least show interest in lordly affairs,” Roose said, making for the keep without another glance.

Ramsay inhaled sharply through his nose, and for a moment his grip on Theon’s arm tightened hard enough to bruise. Then he released, eyes boring into his father’s back.

“As soon as that old man is dead, I’m going to fuck you in his bed so hard his ghost will feel it,” he muttered darkly before pressing a kiss to Theon’s temple. “Don’t lament my absence too harshly, my sweet. You’ll be seeing me again soon enough.”

“I’ll count the moments,” Theon said, voice dry as kindling.

* * *

Theon was given a brief tour of the inner keep by some female servants, common wenches by the looks of them who had been upgraded to his handmaidens out of necessity. Though the child of a great house deserved better, this wasn’t the south, where he could expect to be waited on by noble maidens like some Highgarden girl.

The Dreadfort was as stifling on the inside as the outside had implied. Many of the halls were winding and windowless, the air warm but dense. The fortress was built upon underground thermal vents that funneled heat into the keep. Theon couldn’t help but feel trapped within its walls.

A bedchamber was readied for him, with other servants already setting to bringing up and unpacking his belongings. Whilst they went at it he was brought into a spare room where a bath was promptly drawn.

“Never been further west than White Harbor before,” one of the girls - Tansy, was it? Smallfolk were always naming their daughters after plants - said as she undid the buckles of his doublet. “It seems so exotic, our lord’s bride to have come from so far.”

Theon couldn’t remember a time he’d been undressed by a woman in so chaste a manner. Though he expected to be aroused, in all honesty he found himself too discomforted. If anything he felt awkward and wished to be left alone. He had found himself thoroughly disliking the way everyone - male and female alike, of all presentations - looked at him since he turned out omega.

The girls’ hid their smiles and kept their eyes above his waist as best they could, but their cheeks still went rosy once Theon was fully bared.

“You have lovely skin, m’lord,” Violet said as he was eased into the water. “I’m sure Lord Ramsay agrees.”

“Oh yes. There’s nothing our lord favors more than fine, fair skin.”

The girls tittered amongst each other as if sharing some secret joke.

Theon rolled his eyes. “So does he pay you to fuck him, or do you crawl into his bed for free?”

They paused. “M’lord?”

“Ironborn omegas are not so delusional about alpha nature as to be arsed by jealousy. I’ve been on the trail with my husband for two weeks. What sort of fool do you take me for?” He waved at the door. “I can bathe myself.”

The girls exchanged careful glances. “We were instructed to assist you.”

“And I am telling you to get out of my sight.”

With a final troubled look, the girls shuffled uncertainly out the door.

Once they were gone Theon sank into the hot water with a sigh. It was a blessing to finally, properly wash. He’d probably been carrying Ramsay’s scent on him even more than he could realize, and he would be glad to free himself of it as well. For however long he could.

It was not promising that the more time they spent together, the more likely their cycles would synchronize sooner rather than later. Theon was certain he wasn’t ready for that, especially since a mutual rut and heat was the only time a male omega had a fair chance of pregnancy. Fortunately Ramsay’s rut had apparently hit just after the betrothal contest. He likely wasn’t the only one, with the rush of aggression and alpha competition probably seeing most of the young Northern lords in sweats afterward.

Ramsay’s next rut would not be for another two months’ time or so, but meanwhile Theon was overdue. The strain of being on the road had disrupted his natural cycle and set him back, but once he was eating and sleeping well, it was expected that his heat would arrive in coming weeks.

In any case, it was good to be asserting dominance over his husband’s whores as soon as possible. Theon was not a jealous man, but with his arrival everyone needed to get aboard with the new pecking order of the household. After all, omegas were only truly docile where their own alpha was involved - outside the bedchamber they were blood and teeth, clawing at each other to establish status.

Theon was giving himself a final once-over in the cooling water when there was a polite knock at the door. He huffed.

“Yes?”

The door creaked open and a new girl entered with towels and folded clothes in hand.

“Pardon, m’lord. Your bedchamber is prepared. Are you ready? Or if you’d like more time-“

“It’s fine.” Theon rose from the basin and set to drying himself.

“I apologize for the other girls. They’re not yet used to their new roles.”

“Hm.” Theon looked her over, taking in the common fabric and low-cut bodice of her dress. “And who would you be?”

“Myranda, m’lord. The kennel master’s daughter. I’ve been asked to assist, if that please you.”

“I can’t say I have a great need.” The girl was pretty enough, but after her breasts the eye was drawn to a faded bite scar on her neck, just across her mating spot. “You’re married?”

She flushed and looked at her feet in a show of embarrassment.

“No m’lord.”

Ah. An unlucky trollop marked by an alpha unwilling to save what little honor a woman of her standing had to lose. Great wonder she didn’t cover the scar up to conceal her shame. Even married omegas were prone to cover their marked glands with silk scarves or lace cuffs. It was immodest otherwise, especially in the presence of an omega with greater standing.

If the kennel master had been wise he’d have locked a leather guard around his daughter’s neck until her wedding day. Now the man would be lucky if he were ever able to marry her off at all.

“Well. I suppose you can see me settled, in any case.”

“Of course, m’lord.”

Theon took the offered clothing with a frown.

“… These are not mine.”

“They first belonged to the late Lady Bolton,” Myranda said curtly. “The castle seamstress was told to repurpose them, as you would not be bringing many things with you.”

Theon took one look at the corset in her hands and saw red. No. Absolutely not, not ever again. He grabbed the embroidered night robe and fastened it about his waist. He then pushed his way into the hall and down to the bedchamber that had been designated as his.

Immediately he knew something was amiss. It was a fine enough chamber, clearly having once belonged to the lady of the house (a little ghoulish, he’d have to ask if Lady Bethany had also died in here). There was already a fire crackling in the hearth. The large bed was made and the mirrored vanity shined. Theon recognized the trunk and various belongings that had ridden with him in the wheelhouse, but the rest of his luggage, particularly his clothes which had been carried on one of the wagons, were gone. Instead the wardrobe was stocked full with some dead lady’s attire, cut and re-tailored to suit a male omega rather than female.

Theon had never felt so close to blacking out from nothing but pure rage.

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“M’lord, you’re indecent-“

“And it’s how I’ll remain until my property is returned to me!” Theon snapped.

“You’re expected for dinner,” Myranda said, voice carefully light. “A banquet has been prepared to celebrate our lordships’ return, and your arrival.”

“Your ‘lordship’ will be seeing me sooner than that!”

Myranda did not stop him as he left the chamber once more. He did not actually know where Lord Bolton’s solar was but directions were not hard to come by. The denizens of the Dreadfort were apparently well schooled in looking the other way or hiding their own thinking, because few of the servants blinked twice at Theon as he marched barefoot down the stone corridors.

The guards did exchange glances between them as Theon shouldered to the solar door, but neither lifted a hand to stop him from rapping on it.

“… Enter.”

Inside Roose was standing at a table with his Captain of the Guards and the Master-at-Arms, pouring over papers and figures. Ramsay was sat at the corner, foot propped on his chair and looking immeasurably bored. At the sight of Theon in the door he immediately perked up.

“Terribly sorry for the intrusion, my lords,” Theon said icily. “I require a word with my husband.”

“You may have it,” Roose said. “He’ll do more good in the hall than at this table, at this rate.”

Ramsay shot his father a sour look before rising to his feet. “It would be rather irresponsible of me to not see to what ails my consort.”

“Gods forbid you act in a manner deemed irresponsible,” Roose Bolton replied blandly.

The pair of them stepped into the hall, the door barely shut behind them before Theon was rounding on Ramsay with fangs bared.

“What did you do with my things?”

“Your things, my love?”

“I’m not playing games. A full wagon’s worth of my effects left Winterfell, and only single chest’s worth has arrived.”

Ramsay looked thoughtfully to the ceiling before making a show of realization. “Oh, _yes_. I do remember. I’m deeply sorry, but it seems that cart had to be left behind.”

Theon blinked. “Left behind. On… on the _road?_ ”

“It was slowing us down, you see. The load was too heavy to carry all through the mountain pass.”

“The load of my clothes was too heavy,” Theon repeated, aghast. “But not the load of the two-ton armory my family gave you?”

“Sacrifices had to be made.” Ramsay shrugged airily. “It’s no great loss, is it? I’ve given you plenty of fine things to make up for it.”

For a moment Theon was without words. He took a step back - Ramsay had not yet bathed and the smell of him was too strong in the hallway, interfering with Theon’s senses. He needed to stay focused on his anger, not step down and make nice just because his alpha was throwing his scent around.

“What’s your game?” He asked, fists shaking at his sides. “To make me miserable?”

Ramsay made an exaggerated show of alarm. “Why would I _ever_ want to do that?”

“I think I’ve got the measure of you well enough to say it’s the sort of beast you are.” Theon tilted his head slightly in challenge. “What’s wrong? Are you threatened? Afraid that you won’t be taken seriously as the alpha if I’m in breeches?”

The mirth was snuffed from Ramsay’s eyes. “Excuse me?”

“I suppose few could blame you,” Theon continued cruelly, and it was almost like taunting Jon again. “Must be hard to convince everyone you’re the man of the union, given the disparity between us.”

Ramsay took a step forward, closing the gap between them once more. Theon fought the urge to step back again and succeeded in only leaning away cautiously.

“I’m going to give you one chance to apologize,” Ramsay said, soft and dangerous. “Before I take genuine offense.”

Theon met his gaze. “I would’ve expected you to be thicker skinned than that. You have to be, don’t you, growing up a bas-“

The backhand came so quick and hard that Theon didn’t even time to flinch, darkness and light both bursting across his vision. He tumbled back, unmoored.

“You hit me,” he said, mostly to himself, mind faltering with shock. “You _hit_ me.”

“I won’t suffer a disrespectful consort,” Ramsay said, looking at Theon the way one would an insect. “You-“

His own words were severed by the strike of Theon’s fist across his cheek, the impact causing them both to curse in pain. Theon was still rubbing the growing bruise on his knuckles when he was bodily swung into the hard stone wall, causing his world to shudder and turn.

For a dizzying moment he didn’t know which way was up or down, and after a few breaths he realized it was because Ramsay had manhandled him off his feet.

“Doin’ alright there Ramsay?” One of the guards asked, sounding hardly concerned nor surprised with the sight before them.

“Just fine,” Ramsay grunted with the effort of controlling Theon’s thrashing.

“Told you marriage was seven hells, lad.”

“Ha! Are you joking?” Ramsay’s hand slid up the hem of Theon’s robe, squeezing at the bare thigh underneath. “If I’d have known it would be this fun, I’d have sought it out _years_ ago.”

* * *

They made it back to Theon’s chambers, where he was promptly dumped on the floor.

“The banquet is at sundown. You will be dressed and ready and _pleasing_ , and perhaps I will be lenient on you this evening.” Ramsay clicked his tongue in disapproval. “All this fuss over clothes, gods be good. How anyone missed the fact that you’re an omega, I’ll never know.”

Theon scrambled to his feet, body already sore in key spots where various bruises would soon show. Ramsay motioned at the wardrobe.

“This is not Winterfell my _prince_ , and it’s certainly not the islands. Tantrums won’t get you far here. You will wear what you’re given, or you’ll wear nothing at all.” He snapped his fingers at Myranda, who was lurking in the doorway. “Get him ready. No fucking about this time.”

With a turn of his boots Ramsay was gone, though his presence had a way of lingering. Theon clawed the robe from his shoulders in disgust, loathe to smell the scent of his husband on the fabric.

“He’s a fucking beast.”

“I know,” Myranda said, corset in hand as Theon pulled on his smallclothes with terse, angry movements. “But you don’t. Not truly.”

“I understand him well enough. A baseborn animal who thinks disgracing me will make him more a lord.”

Myranda helped him into the corset and began doing up the laces with a cruel efficiency. Theon winced and clutched the bed post on which his hands were braced. He swallowed down the demands for gentle treatment even as the girl seemed intent on cinching him in half.

“He’s worse than you know, m’lord. He violates the housemaids and terrorizes the village girls. He always has.”

“How could that be? His father-“

“Lord Bolton never lifts a hand to him, not with any true intent,” Myranda said, voice hushed. “So long as Ramsay doesn’t too greatly inconvenience his father, nothing is said. The men cover for him as well.”

“Why?” Theon asked, bewildered. He couldn’t say he was greatly shocked by the news, especially recalling how Ramsay had pinned him in the woods. “How could someone of his status hold such sway?”

“… I must show you something. I fear you won’t believe me otherwise,” Myranda said quietly. “Once you do you’ll understand why you can’t stay. You need to flee this place, back to Winterfell if you must, before Lord Ramsay seeds you and binds you forever to his house.”

Theon frowned. It sounded a bit dramatic, even all things considered… but it would be a lie to say that he didn’t wish to return to Winterfell. If this peasant girl could give him the justification to do so…

“Alright.”

Myranda nodded. “As soon as he’s asleep, after he’s had his way with you, I’ll come retrieve you.”

“He usually stays with me through the night.”

Myranda’s expression flickered briefly. “Once he’s asleep, then. Make sure he drinks deeply. Then come meet me in the hall.”

Theon rest a hand on his waist and took an unsteady breath. Whatever dark secrets Ramsay Bolton had, he didn’t much care - so long as they led to the undoing of this marriage.

* * *

The late Lady Bethany had not been a woman of poor taste, for which Theon could at least be grateful. She’d been born a Ryswell, a Northern house known for their fine horse stock and rulership of the Rills. A house that could raise its daughters with a taste for fine clothes.

The gown was modified to emulate male omega fashion, with the bronze skirts parted by a front split to display black leggings underneath. If Theon tried very hard, it was almost like wearing breeches. The beaded embroidery of the bodice glimmered in the firelight as he begrudgingly sat at Ramsay’s side.

With Theon’s new plan in mind he was resolved to fake submission and remorse for the earlier incident. Even though the bruise forming upon the crest of Ramsay’s cheek made him smile into his cup.

“You look very fine this evening,” Ramsay said, fingers tracing down the stitching of the bodice.

“Thank you my lord.”

Ramsay might have been raised in his father’s keep and given free rein to run wild on the Bolton lands, but it was abundantly clear that the bastard had never handled a highborn lady before. His hand trailed down under the table to stroke Theon’s lower stomach through the silk. Gods, did his lust _never_ cease? Theon never thought he’d meet a man with a greater sexual appetite than his own self.

It was especially damning how Theon’s treacherous body responded. His flesh didn’t know that his husband was a savage, all it knew was that his alpha was strong and virile and physically compatible. Even a hint of his husband’s scent was enough to trigger the interest of some primitive part of his mind.

The feast was a glorious affair after so many long days on the road, where he had depended on Ramsay’s hunts and fancy to share. So long as he could keep eating, the bastard’s hand could go on and do what it liked. He winced when Ramsay pinched the tender underside of his arm, nails leaving crescent indents upon his skin.

“Don’t ignore me.”

Theon barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. _Am I to be his bride or his mother?_

“We’re in polite company, my lord.”

“You didn’t much care for that when you strode through the keep in your dressing gown.”

Theon reached for his wine again before Ramsay promptly plucked it up and set it out of reach.

“One would think you have an interest in that sort of thing. Being indecent where my men can see.”

_Your father’s men, you mean._

“I’m not sure I follow,” Theon said, tightening his grip on his silverware.

“Well between this and the outburst on the road-“

“That was you!” Theon hissed.

“You provoked me. And admitted it was your fault after,” Ramsay said, looking at Theon in his periphery. “Or was your apology insincere?”

By the gods, it was always down a foxhole with this one. Layers of word traps and games. Theon had never been good at walking away when goaded, even when he could see he was being played, so it was a profound effort to not bite back.

At least the more Ramsay talked, the less aware he was of how much he drank, and the man certainly liked to eat and drink as it was. Maybe if Theon was lucky Ramsay would be too drunk to get erect that night, and would leave the bridal chamber alone.

Theon could remember from their nights on the road that the man was an unreliable sleeper. Some nights he slumbered so deeply as to not even budge when a guard hammered on the door, or when Theon squirmed beneath him for space. Yet on others he would stir at the slightest creak or distant owl call, going from unconscious to full waking in an instant. To send him to bed sated and heavy with food and drink would give Theon the easiest leave to slip away.

Throughout the banquet Theon watched as the serving girls trembled and avoided his husband’s gaze. Had Ramsay forced himself on them all? The Lord Bolton seemed unconcerned, minding his own meal and continuing to softly discuss matters with the men at his arm.

Meanwhile Theon felt the toe of Ramsay’s boot slipping up the toe of his calf, lifting his gown in its wake.

“I hope you found your new bedchamber to your liking,” Ramsay said huskily. “We ought to consecrate it, don’t you think?”

Theon made every effort to keep his voice level. “If that please you, my lord.”

Ramsay grinned and his boot extracted itself from Theon’s skirts.

“My bride is quite tired from the journey,” Ramsay announced. “He’ll be retiring early.”

Before dessert too. Theon hid his irritation as he rose from the table with a polite nod to Lord Bolton.

“Good evening, my lords.”

“And to you,” Roose said, gaze disconcertingly veiled as always. “I’m sure there will be time to discuss your new role with us on the morrow.”

With another respectful nod Theon made his exit from the room. His new ‘role’. He scowled. If anyone thought he was going to live the rest of his days as the consort to that… _animal_ , they had another thing coming.

* * *

Theon waited in his chamber, after having wrestled out of his gown and leggings. He had no idea how to remove the corset, tight-laced as it was up the line of his spine. After a moment’s struggle he accepted defeat and pulled a lacy night robe over his shoulders.

His husband’s lust was not something Theon objected to in principle. Gods knew that he himself had always been liberal in sensual matters. The issue was not only in how distasteful Ramsay was as a person, but in how the bastard made him feel.

It was hard to shake the sense that the sex was not truly about pleasure, not where Ramsay was concerned. There was always a dark sort of power play to every encounter, with Theon as an object being handled and consumed; and god help him and his traitorous body but Theon loved it when Ramsay touched him. The most mindless and carnal part of him rejoiced at it, but once the deed was done and rationality returned, there was only disgust and shame left behind.

Why did his heart race at the thought of his husband feasting downstairs, cock hardening with the knowledge that Theon waiting for him? Why did his skin tingle and thighs shake imagining those heavy boots climbing the steps?

It wasn’t fair. Maybe once all was done Theon could find a new groom. An alpha just as chemically compatible, who could match his body without being such a monstrous lout at heart. A noble high-blooded lord who would treat Theon as he deserved.

… Not right away though. Perhaps he’d first spend another year at Winterfell, soaking in Robb’s apologies for selling him off in the first place.

Theon stiffly jolted to his feet at the sound of footsteps halting outside his door. The chamber opened without so much as a knock or call, with Ramsay swinging it loudly shut behind him.

“Ah. There you are.” He looked Theon over whilst shedding his wool cloak. “I expected you a little more readied than that.”

“I… I can’t take it off myself, my lord.” Theon parted his robe to show the corset underneath. “You’ll have to help me.”

A strange light caught in Ramsay’s eyes. He crossed the room in long strides, hands roaming down the tight lines of the bodice.

“You’ll keep it on.”

“What?” Theon blinked. “My lord-“

He was already being herded onto the bed, suddenly all too aware of how tightly Myranda had entrapped him. His breaths were labored even before Ramsay flipped him over, air rushing from his lungs.

“I still need to punish you for your outburst. Ramsay yanked pointedly on the exposed laces, eliciting a groan of pain as the whalebone frame dug into Theon’s hips. “You need to learn a lesson in modesty.”

Theon’s nails clawed at the sheets as his head swam, mind blank of all except the pressure on his chest, the heat at his back, and then the wet slide of Ramsay breaching him. The man was merciless, groping the shape of Theon’s winched waist as he pounded in and out like a beast.

Theon had never felt so aware and yet disconnected from his body, his vision going fuzzy at the edges. He tried to signal that he couldn’t breathe, torso in bondage and face down in the bed with his husband bearing down upon him.

Would Ramsay even care?

Theon’s last thought before all went dark was that death by sex was not as he’d hoped it would be.

* * *

Theon awoke to the miraculous feeling of air in his lungs. His back was an agony of sore muscles, but he was alive and breathing. The corset was gone, leaving him bare atop the sheets. A bleary glance to the floor showed the offending article in a pile, the laces reduced to a tangled mess.

“Oh, you’re awake. Good.”

Ramsay was standing at the vanity with a flagon of wine, wearing only a loose linen undershirt that barely went down to his thigh. How much time had passed?

“What happened?”

“You fell asleep on me,” Ramsay said simply. “Was I boring you?”

“You were suffocating me,” Theon snapped. “I could have died.”

“Theatrical little thing, aren’t you? Going by how wet your slit was, I thought you liked it.”

Theon flushed, taking note of the slick between his legs. “… Did you wait until after you finished to check if I was alive?”

“I truly hope you don’t shape up to be this much of a nag full time.” Ramsay said with a sigh. “That would be unfortunate for you.”

He moved to the fireside chair. The implement sat there nearly sent Theon choking again.

“What in the _hell_ are you doing with that?”

Ramsay swung the flogger experimentally through the air. “You were asleep a while. It got me thinking that you’ve been very stroppy of late. I’ve had a horse or two like that.”

“So you intend to beat me like one!?” Theon scrambled back along the bed, eyes wide.

The flogger was a nasty thing, corded with braids of stiff leather.

“What? You think I beat my horses with this?” Ramsay asked, brow high. “What sort of savage do you take me for?”

“Ramsay,” Theon had his hands cup in a placating motion. “You’re drunk. Put the flogger down and we’ll - I’ll ride you. Alright? I-I’ll suck you, I-“

“You beg very nicely,” Ramsay said, a wine flush to his cheeks as his eyes sparkled, looking more bestial than ever. “And those sound like very pretty promises. I’m sure you’re used to getting your way with those bright eyes and sweet lips of yours. Is that the game you play, prince? You think you can disrespect me at will, then get out of it by leading me about by my cock afterwards?”

Theon’s heart was hammering in his chest now, a cold sweat breaking out across his neck.

“N-no, of course not!”

“Then what’s wrong? You once told me to show you what I was made of. Can’t you take it?” Ramsay asked, sickly sweet. “I think it’s time you stopped boring _me_ and made a show of your own.”

Theon’s pride rankled at the implications that he was too weak to take anything and everything Ramsay could give - but then his eyes caught on the flogger once more, and the idea of being whipped like an errant slave stole the heat from his bones.

“I think twenty lashes sounds fair.”

“Twent-!”

“But I’ll bring it down to twelve if you kiss my feet and ask for it.”

Theon could vividly see himself launching across the bed to throttle him. Of course he would be overpowered, but the idea was satisfying.

“Well…?”

With great reluctance Theon slowly wobbled from the bed to circle its frame. Ramsay watched him hungrily as he sank down; he used every ounce of willpower to brace himself. Bending on hands and knees, he pressed a kiss to the pale skin by Ramsay’s ankle. He barely kept himself from retching all over it.

“P-please punish my insolence, lord husband.”

Ramsay’s fingers cruelly tangled in Theon’s hair, wrenching him violently back to his feet.

“I don’t suppose a spoiled lord like you knows the proper position, hm?” He asked cruelly. “Or did Ned Stark ever take a hand to you?”

“Just… just the birch. Sometimes.”

Not in years though. Not since he was a boy dumb enough to pick fights where Lord Stark could see.

“Hands on the bed posts, like that. Keep your head low.”

Theon tried to calm himself as he stood at the foot of the bed, hands clutching hard at the posts before him. He shuddered at the feeling of Ramsay stroking the flogger down his back.

“I would stay still, if I were you,” he said softly, voice scarcely more than a whisper.

Then he stepped back, the contact disappearing. For a long moment the air was still. Theon desperately tried to control his heart rate, it would just be embarrassing if he passed out again like-

“God, _fuck_ -!“He heard the impact just before he felt it, and then it was a vibrant strike across his skin.

The flogger dealt a heavy, stinging sort of blow, cords sprawling over the whole of his upper back.

“Rams-“ His protest was silenced by another hit, with several tendrils of pain criss-crossing over the last set.

“You’d think an Ironborn could take a few lashes,” Ramsay jeered between blows. “Don’t they discipline sailors at sea? Or did a highborn _lord_ like yourself never have to think of such things?”

The hits would not break skin but the bruising was sure to be severe. Theon could already feel several welts beginning to rise and swell; fat red lines like ripples on his flesh. He had personally lost count of the strikes. All his mental power went towards staying as still as he could, with only a little thought left over to pray that it actually stopped at twelve.

When Theon felt Ramsay’s hands on his back he startled terribly, thinking for a moment that it was another kiss of the leather.

“Ssh. No need to fuss.” Ramsay guided him to lie face-down once more on the bed. “You can go again, can’t you? My sweet bride wouldn’t get me all worked up and leave me wanting.”

Theon made a whine of protest but didn’t fight as Ramsay made room between his thighs. Insatiable as always.

The pain in his back washed out most other feelings. Theon was emotionally wrung, cock flaccid as he was fucked into the mattress for the second time. Even then the sex wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but more relatable to scratching an itch than the brilliant euphoria he had come to know. He just wanted it to be done, for his husband to spend and then leave so that Theon could have a wash and a cry in peace.

Of course it wasn’t so simple. He felt the pulse and then the wet warmth of Ramsay’s seed inside him, followed by the knot that would lock them together. He supposed that pulling out before climax was too much to ask for.

Rather than rest his weight on Theon’s injured back, Ramsay rolled them over to lie on their sides - though the move was less for Theon’s benefit and more for the pleasure of exploring the welts with his wandering fingertips.

“You bruise very nicely,” Ramsay hummed, kissing a swollen lump on the left shoulder blade. “I bet you bleed nicely too.”

_Gods, just shut up and go to sleep._

* * *

Theon got his wish soon enough. By the time Ramsay’s knot had gone down the man was fast asleep, snoring softly into the pillow. Theon grimaced as he wriggled inch by inch from under the heavy weight of Ramsay’s arm, hissing faintly in displeasure as he slipped free of the spent cock inside him. He glanced worriedly at the bed all whilst wiping himself as clean as he could with the rags by the water basin. Fortunately the indulgence of food, wine and sex had knocked his husband out as deeply as was probably possible.

Theon pulled on a linen shift and wool robe before sliding his feet into a pair of slippers. With a final look at his sleeping partner, he crept into the corridor and gently shut the chamber door behind him.

The halls were quiet at night. Theon padded softly down the way, robe wrapped tightly around him against the chill. He flinched at the hand touching his arm from the shadows.

“M’lord?” Myranda quickly retracted her arm. “We should hurry.”

“Yes. Of course.” Theon shook himself. “What is it I need to see?”

Myranda led him through the winding halls and eventually down the service stair. Further and further into the bowels of the Dreadfort they descended. Theon’s nose wrinkled at the foul, stagnant air that greeted them in the dungeons.

Eventually Myranda stopped before a particular cell door and pulled a key from her apron.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I have my ways.” She unlocked the door and tilted her head inside. “Go on. Have a look at your husband’s work.”

From the moment Theon crossed the threshold the charnel smell was overpowering - blood and bile were the most prominent, among other things. He held the hem of his robe to his nose to little avail, eyes squinting to peer through the darkness. He inched out of the doorframe so that meager torchlight could spill in from the hall.

Immediately he wished he hadn’t.

The body was in such a severe state of mutilation, yet the still-wet glistening of the exposed tendons showed that it must have been a somewhat recent death. Flaying was outlawed, had been for generations… but the proof of it was before his eyes, unmistakeable. The ghoulish symbol of the Bolton banner, pinned before him like an animal sheared for its pelt.

Theon couldn’t stop himself from heaving, emptying his stomach in some darkened corner of the cell.

“You see now?” Myranda asked as he coughed and wheezed. “You cannot stay, m’lord. You could take a horse and make for the Hornwood. They would grant you safe passage to Winterfell.”

“Ramsay would come after me.”

“He’s already gained what he wanted most. His name,” Myranda insisted. “Be away from here and say that you will keep his secret in exchange for your freedom. You’re not yet carrying his child.”

“I could just as easily tell everyone the truth and see him hanged for it,” Theon said darkly. “Flaying is a capital crime. Who even was this man?”

“… A thief, m’lord,” Myranda said, eyeing him cautiously. “Poaching in Bolton lands.”

“A transgression worth being skinned alive?” Theon wiped the sweat from his brow. “I’ve seen enough.”

“If you report the Boltons they will hide the evidence before you even cross the river,” Myranda said, not budging from the doorway. “It’ll be your word on theirs. Ned Stark will not overturn the North for it, especially when your husband paints you as hysterical.”

“If Ramsay terrorizes the lands as you say, someone will be willing to talk.” Theon said. “The fathers of the girls he’s tormented, perhaps.”

Myranda looked up at him with a strange look on her face, unsettlingly calm.

“You could have just taken your horse and gone home,” she said stonily. “Everyone could have won. What I get for trying to be nice.”

“What?”

Myranda stepped backwards into the dungeon corridor before slamming the cell door shut in a single, bitter motion. The light from the hall was severed, plunging him into putrid darkness.

“Oi! Don’t-“ There was the heavy sound of the key turning in the lock. “You can’t leave me in here!”

He banged on the door with increasing urgency, panic rising in his chest.

“Let me out! You lowborn _bitch_ , I’ll slit your fucking throat myself if you don’t unlock this bloody door-!”

He heard her fading footsteps with mounting horror. He was alone.

* * *

Ramsay took his time.

Theon didn’t know if it was morning or not when the door finally swung open, a pair of guards at the young lord’s heels. Theon had been more or less curled tightly on what he judged to be the cleanest square of floor, too afraid to wander or touch anything else in the dark. He blinked and cringed from the light, head half tucked in the crook of his arm.

“Well I must say this is disappointing. Perhaps I should have gone for twenty after all,” Ramsay said, sounding far too pleased with himself for a man exposed. “You really found _this_ a more favorable way to spend the night than at my side? I’m wounded.”

“Whatever your whore told you, she’s the one who led me down here,” Theon said bitterly. “This is your true self then, is it? I might have known.”

“I doubt it. You’re not all that bright, sweetling,” Ramsay said. “You have a point though. It’s not advisable, a man keeping secrets from his bride. My house is now yours after all.”

“This will never be my house,” Theon snarled. “I don’t care what you do in this cursed dungeon, but I won’t be bound to a man who degrades and torments me for fun. Turn me loose and all that was seen here can be forgotten.”

“The day I turn you loose it will be barefoot, into the woods, for my dogs to run down,” Ramsay said plainly. “And it will be after you’ve borne my heir, if at all. How sad Robb Stark will be to learn you’ve died in childbirth, and with no bones for him to mourn over. I’m sure your sister will appreciate us telling her you were interred to the sea.”

Theon froze, heart stuttering in his chest. He didn’t know how to leverage his way out of this, how to turn the tables in his favor.

“So here’s how it is: you will either remain in these dungeons, where I will fuck you through your heats until you’re seeded, and then do for you once the child is birthed. Or,” Ramsay knelt down to his level, palm cupping his jaw. “You can return upstairs - minded in all your future comings and goings by an escort - and do your duty to me as my omegan bride. It’d be a rather terrible thing for our babe to grow without a mother. Don’t you think?”

Theon felt helpless tears beginning to well in his eyes. He had no options. Ramsay was more than capable of following through on all his threats, and anyone who cared for Theon may as well have been a world away.

“Yes, lord husband,” Theon said, his voice cracking. “I understand.”

“Then let’s get upstairs before you fall ill in this place.” Ramsay took his hand and led him gingerly from the festering cell.

Myranda was leaning against the wall by the stairwell, arms crossed over her chest and eyes dark with anger.

“What are you doing? You can’t just-“

“His cycle’s already been upset enough,” Ramsay said. “I’m owed a heat. I’d also like my child to actually take root and survive to term.”

“Is that what your father told you?” Myranda asked with a sneer.

“So what if it was?” Ramsay snapped. “I just brought him home yesterday, for fuck’s sake. I won’t be throwing him out already just because you got jealous. _Again_.”

Myranda opened her mouth to protest, but a warning look had her mouth clicking shut once more.

“Pay her no mind,” Ramsay said dismissively as he herded Theon up and into the light. “I know you’ll adjust in due time.”

* * *

Ramsay made good on his promise for an escort. In the following weeks everywhere Theon went, he went attended by Bolton men. The handmaids who undoubtedly served as whores and spies on the side went with him to all the places the alpha men could not. No longer could Theon dismiss the girls from his baths or bid them to give him privacy as he changed clothes.

He spent most of his time shuttered in his bedchamber, the one place he was allowed to be without a chaperone, just to have some peace. For want of any other entertainment he spent it reading. Occasionally he was allowed to loose arrows at the archery range or visit Smiler in the stables (how sad a state, to have one’s best friend be a horse) but otherwise he found himself paraded about at Ramsay’s side.

As most everyone had heard and still spoke of the infamous tournament in which the Bolton bastard won his prize, it was hardly necessary to showcase the union to every noble visitor at the Dreadfort. Yet Ramsay insisted on it, wearing Theon on his arm like an especially expensive brooch - no doubt to rub in the face of any and every one who might have ever said that a bastard couldn’t amount to much.

With Roose Bolton being a widower, even though Ramsay had not yet inherited, circumstances designated Theon as the acting Lord Consort of the house. Though he had been forced to shadow Lady Stark for a time in order to assimilate understanding of what such responsibilities entailed (an experience they both resented greatly), he was still rather unprepared. For now at least he was only expected to be hospitable to guests. It would likely be a while before he was entrusted with the power to do anything more.

Nearly every night Ramsay came to Theon’s chambers, sometimes for sex and sometimes smelling of sex with another. He always seemed bemused at his consort’s lack of care on the matter.

“Aren’t omegas meant to be possessive of their alpha?” Ramsay eventually asked, not so much insulted as genuinely curious. “I was always led to believe you were rather jealous and petty creatures.”

“That’s not the way I was raised,” Theon said with a shrug. “So long as my status is not at risk, what do I care who you sleep with? Imagine, me being threatened by your slattern from the kennel.”

He pulled back the sheets and straddled Ramsay’s hips willingly. It always ached less come morning when he went without a fuss. Not to mention that Theon still had needs of his own.

“Your status?” Ramsay repeated, brow raised and grin stealing across his face. “You are still on rather thin ice after your last adventure.”

“Omegas establish a hierarchy amongst themselves, just as alphas do. Even if I am your prisoner I am still your consort. I am still prince of the Iron Islands. I am still the one who will carry your valid children,” Theon said. “Alphas are not built to take only one lover, but they have but one true mate. Households with multiple brides are still harmonious, so long as the rock wife establishes order for the others to follow.”

If anything, it was a dark sort of victory that he felt on the matter. At least in this regard Ramsay’s attempts to hurt him would come to naught. Even if it were not a matter of status, Theon knew that the damnable chemical collisions that they experienced every other night - the physiological compatibility they shared - was simply too vibrant to be found off any old sidestreet. Such had been his bane.

“You want me to be jealous? To fight over your cock with all the local tavern wenches?” He laughed mirthlessly. “I am Theon of Greyjoy of Castle Pyke. Your whores don’t concern me. Tell me that any one of them makes you feel as I do, and I’ll be only impressed.”

And with those words, he could have sworn he felt Ramsay’s length grow harder within him.

* * *

It was a gradual thing when the pre-heat signs began to show. Some days Theon was ravenous, others he could barely make himself eat at all. His thirst was practically unquenchable, water more precious to him than gold, and his scent began to flare up and down in potency. All the while Ramsay watched him, eyes intense and unblinking, nostrils flaring whenever a change in the air sent him a whiff of Theon’s scent.

A proper heat could last anywhere from 3 to 5 days, but the days leading into it were discomforting in their own right. In technical terms, an omega in heat grew less inclined to act and more inclined to _react_ : that is, Theon’s thoughts became muddy and slow, vacant and uninspired. He became more eager to take on the suggestions or support of others, submitting to and leaning heavily upon Ramsay’s guidance as the world grew less and less coherent.

Once it became clear what was happening Ramsay ceased his regular pilgrimages to Theon’s chamber, leaving the omega to writhe and turn with miserable, shameful need. Dreams became more and more unspeakable. Though Theon tried to sate his nerves by his own ministrations, no touch to his cock eased the budding ache between his legs.

When the wave finally crested, it was the middle of the night.

Theon’s eyes snapped open with a hazy gasp, his breaths weak and ineffectual at feeding his lungs. He felt drunk as well as fevered. Dizzy and floating, moving through air as if it were water. His body was flushed and tingling with needles and pins, and a warm slick was wetting the space between his thighs.

The guards that would otherwise be stationed at his door had been removed for the heat’s duration for fear of impropriety, and Theon could just about hear the maids left for his supervision snoring in the neighboring chambers.

Having shed his bedclothes in the night, he found himself moving carelessly and half-dressed through the halls. He followed the haze of torchlight and the traces of sweet musk that were steadily growing stronger as he went.

After what felt like a century Theon was fumbling at a heavy door where the scent was strongest. His fingers felt swollen and clumsy as he wrestled with the handle.

He half expected to step through and into the Northern forest outside. It was an earthy sort of spice, warm as burning cedar and cool as misty pine, sweet as woodland moss. Most prevalent of all was a primal, animal smell of sweat, skin and sex.

As Theon stood in the shadowed bedchamber it took several seconds for his sluggish mind to process what he was looking at. His alpha, _of course_ , bare skin glowing under moonlight, strong chest rising and falling with the pace of his breathing. Theon’s own chest squeezed at the sight.

… And at his side, the unmistakeable sleeping form of the kennel master’s daughter, curled under his arm. The curve of her slender neck lay exposed to show the faded bite mark branded there. Immediately Theon felt a righteous sort of fury in his veins.

His heat had been coming on him for days. Everyone knew. And here was his alpha’s mistress - not even his salt wife, not even a member of their home, their clan - trying to interfere? Trying to usurp Theon’s status? There was no greater insult to the top omega of a house than to impede the mating pair during heat.

Clearly this bitch did not know her place. Well. They could fix that.

Myranda screamed like a banshee when Theon dragged her from the bed, her limbs kicking and flailing. Theon slung her body to the hard floor by her hair before he set upon her, fists raining down her vulnerable, bare form. She was screaming their alpha’s name, mindless with shock and fear at the violent awakening. Theon’s knuckles dripped with blood - from Myranda’s swelling eye or busted lip or perhaps where she’d bit her tongue, he couldn’t know.

Her protests were weak but still frenzied when he bodily tossed her into the corridor. His last glimpse of her was of being sprawled across the stone floor, naked and battered. Theon swung the door shut and properly latched it into place.

Flush with victory and vindication, he turned back to the bed. Ramsay was sat up on the pillows, pale eyes gleaming in the low light. He had made no move to get out of bed. Good. These things were omega business. The pecking order amongst his lovers was for Theon to iron out. The gears of the household was the consort’s domain, not for his lord alpha to worry about.

Theon slid into bed, shedding his damp smallclothes as he went. He mounted Ramsay’s hips, thighs bracketing his alpha’s waist. He inhaled deeply along the line of Ramsay’s throat.

His alpha’s lips were moving but the sound was like coming from underwater. What need did they have for words? Theon made this feeling known by pressing his mouth against Ramsay’s own, reveling in the soft give of his lips and the taste of his mouth. They really did not kiss enough. Why?

Theon sighed at the feeling of a warm hand creeping up his thigh as another cupped his jaw.

“You said you would come to me every night,” he said, barely hearing nor comprehending his own words. “Until I was full with your sons.”

There was a soft rumble in Ramsay’s chest that could have been laughter. The man was smiling for certain, eyes bright with mirth and lust.

“You want to give me sons?”

“Of course. Strong, blue eyed alphas, just like you.” Theon gasped and spread his legs further as Ramsay began to probe at his entrance. “The Bolton line will populate the North, if you want it.”

“That’s an awful lot of children,” Ramsay mused. “You expect me to care for so many?”

“I will tend to them.” Theon’s words were choked as Ramsay’s warm cock slid inside him, finally pressing into all those sweet and aching places that had been diving him mad. “I’ll bear and nurture all your children. Even the bastards, if you seed those tramps of yours. You won’t have to worry for anything.”

Ramsay’s brow was high with surprise and interest. “Oh?”

Theon nodded eagerly, unable to stop himself from rocking up and down his alpha’s length. It was an omega’s job to keep the nest. If Ramsay did spawn bastards, the safest place to put them was under Theon’s own control and in his debt. Something Catelyn Stark should have learned. If Jon had been a little more ambitious, it would have been well within his means to exploit his father’s softness for him and make her life far more miserable than he had.

None of the mistresses would ever be considered part of the household, the limits of mainland marriage law had seen to that - but their children potentially could be. Theon was not above stealing them to ensure his own interests.

“What a sweet thing I’ve wed,” Ramsay said, arching his hips to press deeper into Theon’s body.

There was no more room in Theon’s head for words after that. Only sensation and his alpha’s touch.

At one point they rolled over so that Ramsay could be on top - just where his lord should always be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one has to be the final chapter, it HAS TO BE


End file.
